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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNI|
AT LOS ANGELES

I

REMAINS

OF

NITHSDALE AND GALLOWAY SONG

WITH

HISTORICAL AND TRADITIONAL NOTICES

RELATIYE TO THE

MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF THE PEASANTRY.

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED IiV

It II CROMEK, F.A.S. Ed.

l.DI Mil; ii|- '• | Hi: KEL1QUES OF KOUIIRT IJUItNS.'

' a faithful portrait, unadorned,

or manners lingering yet in Scotia's vales.1

LONDON:

PRINTKI) FOR T. (AI)KI.L AMI W. DA VIES, STKANP

n>> T. HKSSLKY, Dolt r,,„rt, Flat Start.
1810.

X

N6Cs

TO

Mrs. COPLAND,

OF DALLEATTIE.

At length, my dear Madam, the grate-
ful task in which I engaged, is per-
formed. You well know with what

f) anxiety I undertook my humble share in
this Work, and how much your kind as-
^ "• sistance smoothed my path, and your
cheering approbation encouraged me to
appear for a second time, before a less
indulgent tribunal. What its decision
may be I cannot anticipate — I respect

\1 the censures of good men, and to their
favourable acceptance I submit my la-
bours.

Jt. II. CROMER,

L> IV ill m,

f)4, Si it-man Street, 1810.

•<- ;•

CONTENTS.

Page

Introduction 1

CLASS I.
SENTIMENTAL BALLADS.

The Lord's Marie 3

Bonnie Lady Ann g

She's gane to dwall in Heaven 14

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie 18

Lady Jean's Luve 24

The Broken Heart of Annie 30

Habbic's rrae Hame 32

The Return of Spring 34

The Lovely Lass of Preston Mill 38

Fragment 41

cw*. ' -- - - •' '

IV CONTENTS.

Page

The Auld Carle's Welcome 46

A weary bodie's blythe whan the Sun gangs down 50
My ain Fire-side . . (Note) 53

CLASS II.
HUMOROUS BALLADS.

The Pawky Auld Kimmer 59

The Ewe-bughts 63

The Pawky Loon the Miller 66

The Gray Cock 72

Stars dinna keek in 76

Galloway Tarn 7?

Tarn Bo 79

Were ye at the Pier o' Leith ? 81

Our Guid-wife's ay in the Right 82

Original of Burns's ' Carle of Kelly-burn braes' . 83

Souter Sawney had a Wife 87

Fairly shot on her 88

Original of Burns's ' Gude Ale comes,' 90

CONTENTS. r

Page

There's nane o' them a' like my bonnie lassie ... Oft.

My Kimmer and I 95

Variations of ' Tibbie Fowler/ Q?

Cannie wi' your blinkin, Bessie 103

The Bridal Sark 106

The Bridegroom Darg 113

CLASS III.
JACOBITE BALLADS, 1715.

Derwentwater, a Fragment 12/

Lament for the Lord Maxwell 132

The Lusty Carlin 137

Kenmure's on an' awa, Willie 139

The wee, wee German Lairdie 14-1

Awa, Whigs, awa 1*17

The Highland Laddie 150

Merry may the Keel rowe 154

Song of the Chevalier 15(>

VI CONTENTS.

JACOBITE BALLADS, 1745.

Page

Carlisle Yetts, a Fragment 15g

Were ye e'er at Crookie Den ? 163

Cumberland and Murray's Descent into Hell. . . . 160

Harae, Hame, Hame 169

The Waes o' Scotiand. 172

The Sun's bright in France 177

The Lamentation of an Old Man over the Ruin of

his Family 179

The Lovely Lass of Inverness 180

The Young Maxwell 184

Lassie, lie near me 1 89

Bannocks o' Barley 192

Young Airly 195

The Highland Widow's Lament 19s

Charlie Stewart 201

CLASS IV.
OLD BALLADS AND FRAGMENTS.

We were Sisters, we were seven 20j

Two Verses of Logan Braes 218

CONTENTS. VU

Page

O who is this under my Window 21Q

Lady Margerie 222

Young Airly 226

The Mermaid of Galloway 229

APPENDIX.

Scottish Games 251

A Specimen of the Tender Mercies of Claver-

house, from the Life of Alexander Peden. . 255

' Taking the Beuk' 258

Description of the Stool of Repentance 263

History of "Witchcraft, sketched from the popular
Tales of the Peasantry of Nithsdale and Gal-
loway 272

Character of the Scottish Lowland Fairies 293

Particulars of the Escape of Lord Nithsdale from

the Tower, in 1716 3] 1

Account of Billy Blin', the Scotch Brownie .... 330

V1U CONTENTS.

Page

Brief Memoir of the Life of John Lowe, author
of ' Mary's Dream,' by the Rev. William
Gillespie, Minister of Kells Parish, in Gal-
loway 342

Mary's Dream 362

Old way of Mary's Dream 363

The Design on the Title- Page is engraved on Wood,
by Clennell, from the pencil of Stothard. It
represents an Old Woman communicating to Lord
Nithsdale's Tenants the news of his Escape to France.
Vide p. 137.

INTRODUCTION.

1 he Scottish poets have raised a glorious fa-
bric of characteristic Lyric, the fairest perhaps
any nation can boast. The foundations were
laid by various unknown hands, and even of
those who raised the superstructure few have
attained the honour of renown; but the whole
has been reformed and completed by a Man
whose fame will be immortal as his genius was
transcendant. The name of Robert Burns,
Jet a Scotchman pronounce it witli reverence
and affection ! He produced the most simple
and beautiful lyrics himself; he purified and
washed from their olden stains many of the
most exquisite of past ages. He collected
others with all the <j;l()wiii<j; enthusiasm of an
antiquary, and with the keen eye of an exqui-
site critic and poet. It was on these beautiful
old ballads and songs that Burns laid the
foundation of his greatness. Their simplicity
he copied; he (quailed their humour, and
excelled their pathos. But that flame which
a

11

they helped to raise absorbed them in its supe-
rior brightness ; so that the more we investigate
the sources from which he drew, the more our
reverence for his genius is increased. What-
ever he transplanted grew up and flourished
with a vigour unknown in the parent soil;
whatever he imitated sinks almost into insig-
nificance placed by the side of the imitation.
He rolls along like a mighty river, in the con-
templation of which the scattered streams that
contribute to its greatness are forgotten.

It has been the work of the present collector
to redeem some of those fine old ballads and
songs, overshadowed by the genius of Burns ;
such especially as have never before been pub-
lished, and are floating in the breath of popular
tradition.

Many of these are peculiar to certain dis-
tricts of Scotland, and tracts of finely situated
country. Deeply founded in the manners and
customs of the peasantry, they keep hold of
their minds, and pass from generation to gene-
ration by these local ties: — their flashes of
broad humour, their vivid description render
them popular; and their strong touches of na-

Ill

tive feeling and sensibility make a lasting im-
pression on the heart.

It is worthy of remark, that in no district of
England are to be found specimens of this sim-
ple and rustic poetry. The influence of com-
merce has gradually altered the character of
the people : by creating new interests and new
pursuits, it has weakened that strong attach-
ment to the soil which gives interest to the
localities of popular ballads, and has destroyed
those cherished remembrances of former times
which impart to a rude and unpolished strain,
all the pathos of the most laboured elegy.

We may safely premise, that many of the
most valuable traditional songs and ballads pe-
rished in those afflicting times of reformation
and bloodshed which belong to queen Mary, to
Charles, and toJames. A great change then took
place in the Scottish character: — the glowing
vivacity and lightsomeness of the Caledonian
Muses were quenched in the gloomy severity
of sour fanatic enthusiasm, and iron-featured
bigotry. The profanity of Song was denounced
from the pulpit, and the holy lips of Calvinism
would not suffer pollution by its touch : Dane-

IV

ing, to which it is nearly allied, was publickiy
rebuked, attired in fornicator's sackcloth. The
innocent simplicity and airiness of Song gave
way to holier emanations; to spiritualized dit-
ties, and to the edifying cadence of religi-
ous, reforming cant. Such seems to have
been the state of Song when Allan Ramsay
arose. His beautiful collections rekindled the
smothered embers of Lyric Poetry — but he
could not redeem the lost treasures of past
ages ; nor rake from the ashes of the fallen re-
ligion the sacred reliques of its songs. A tew
were redeemed — but they were trimmed anew,
and laced with the golden thread of metaphysic
foppery, over the coarse and homely hoddin-
gray of rural industry. Their naivete of feel-
ing— their humour and amiable simplicity now
gave way to the gilded and varnished trappings
and tasselings of courtly refinement.

Scottish Humour attempted to smear his
thistles with the oil and balm of polite satire,
till they lost their native pungency. Love
was polished, and boarding-schooled, till the
rough mint-stamp of nature was furbished off
it. The peasantry, however, preserved in their

traditional songs and ballads a fair portion of the
spirit and rough nature of the olden times. To
the peasantry the Scotch are indebted for many
of their most exquisite compositions. Their
judgment in the selection and preservation of
Song scarcely can be sufficiently appreciated :
Barbour's Bruce; Blind Harry's Sir William
Wallace; Ramsay's original works, and his Col-
lections of Songs; — Fergusson, and Burns are
to be found in every Scotish hamlet, and in
every hand. Accompanying these, there are
a multitude of songs, ballads, and fragments
which descend by tradition, and are early im-
printed on every mind; —

' Which spinners and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids, that weave their thread with

hones,
Do use to chant of.'

The language of Scotland is peculiarly fit-
ting, pliant, and compressive for all the sweet
civilities of affection. There is a creamy soft-
ness in the rustic Doric which would almost
convince one that it had been at first fashioned
for the familiar fervency of love. It is pecu-

VI

liarly adapted to express tenderness and hu-
mour, as the songs of Burns exquisitely prove.

It was once the opinion of Burns that a
poet of a nice ear, and fine taste, might com-
pose songs without the incumbrance of rhyme.3
He was led into this error by the seeming dis-
sonance of many of them in this necessary ap-
pendage. These jarring rhymes are, however,
softened into similarity of sound when they are
sung. This is to a critical observer the evident
stamp of Rusticity, and is not to be found in
the compositions of the elegant and the learned.

To me it appears, from the glowing warmth
and energy of their composition, that these
songs arc the production of the peasantry. The
hurried and negligent hand of rusticity is plain
upon them. Their familiar manner — their close
reference to the imagery and occupations of
rural affairs, and to rustic incidents, point forci-
bly to the source from whence they sprung.
Many of these rude and abrupt effusions are
more truly touching than if they were elegantly

a ' Reliques of Burns,' p. 347.

Vll

planned out. The broken agitation of feeling,
mingled with the plaintive speech of desolate
woe, naturally vents itself in those spontaneous
bursts of passion and sentiment which savour
of a distempered mind and a broken heart.

At the close of the Rebellion in 1745, the
Scottish Rustic character arose from the wrecks
of feudal jurisdiction. The peasantry had been
silently preparing and modelling their minds
for emancipation ever since the Revolution
of 10*88. The Legislature, by a strange fata-
lity, neglected to bestow political liberty with
freedom of conscience. The English Council
evidently looked on them as a horde of naked
wretches dwelling in hovels in the fag-end
of Creation; nor did the hurried attempt of
Mar, in 1715, raise them any higher in public
estimation.

But the wild and daring schemes of Prince
Charles, in 1745, compelled the government to
look to the North with consternation. They
beheld with terror and dismay a few thou-
sands of half-armed Rustics making their way
through disciplined legions, and drawing their

Vlll

swords within an hundred miles of the Capital.
After signal acts of barbarity peace was again
restored, and the Legislature took serious mea-
sures to amend the condition of Scotland. The
hereditary power of the chieftains was broken,
and the common people were delivered from
the yoke of vassalage. Scotland then assumed
a new and distinct character. Her inland pea-
santry, removed from the bustle and conta-
mination of foreign commerce, still preserved
that perfect individuality of character which
had been forming itself ever since the Refor-
mation. The petty chieftains were now no
longer formidable to government, nor to their
vassals. They beheld with indignation the pil-
lars of their sovereignty cast down. Proud
of ancestorial achievements, they abandoned
their wonted affability and gentleness, and
disdained to mingle with their former depend-
ants, now equally free and aspiring with
themselves. From this change we may date
the immense distance still maintained in Scot-
land, between the lord of the manor, and his
cottager.

IX

The peasantry, with the zeal of newly re-
covered freedom, began to occupy a station in
the annals of industry. Taught by their fathers
to regard every foreign fashion as a danger-
ous innovation, they preserved themselves un-
polluted with the stream of refinement which
was sapping the ancient manners and charac-
ter of their nobility and chieftains. France, their
old ally and relation, had closed up one source
of pollution by drawing the sword against them.
Their sister England was still regarded with a
stern suspicious eye. The cruel persecutions
of the English church — the murders of Glen-
coe — and the bloody underhand policy against
their favourite Settlement on the Isthmus of
Darieu, did not serve to mitigate the stern
counsels of rival and national prejudice. Thus
they received the refinement and manners of
England with the same aversion as they did
her invading armies of former times, who
came to conquer and enslave. This hatred
their national poetry, their traditional history
— and tin ir religious writings, still preserve
and inculcate. Almost all their poetry, from

the venerable Song of Barbour, down to the
Heroic Welcome of the Brus of Bannockurn,
by Burns, stir up and cherish the embers
of former broil. Their volumes of the mar-
tyred worthies, written in the bitterness of
persecuting contest with English prelacy, threw
religion into the scale of political hatred, and
strengthened their prejudices against their
southern brethren.

The fountains of foreign instruction being
thus sealed against them, they applied them-
selves to their own resources, and stored their
minds with the written and traditionary histo-
ries of their native land. These were related
by the old persons, or read by the younger, at
every fire-side, during the winter evenings,and in
the leisure hours of labour, or while tending their
flocks. The condition of the inland peasantry
was easy, and comparatively affluent. Almost
every one had a cow, and a few acres of land.
Oatmeal, pease, delicate mutton, fish in every
stream, and milk and butter, furnished the ne-
cessaries and some of the dainties of existence.
Their clothes were all of home manufacture.

XI

The men's dress was mostly a fine mixed gray,
from wool of natural dye — a large chequered
plaid and bonnet — their shoes were formed of
leather tanned by the shoe-maker; the women's
gowns were of lint and woollen, fancifully
mixed, and frequently of exquisite fineness,
which is still a popular and becoming dress.
From their schools, of which there are two or
three in every parish, they learned to read and
write. Having found means of gratifying their
insatiable thirst after knowledge, every book
was to them a source of pleasure ; and so
eager was the pursuit, that there are many
persons among them who have on their me-
mory the rhymed exploits of Wallace, the
popular parts of Barbour, Ramsay's Gentle
Shepherd, and most of his original and col-
lected songs, with many pieces of beautiful fu-
gitive poetry recorded by their fathers. Add
to these the Psalms of David, and many of
the finest chapters of our translated Bible.
From their fathers and from their ministers
they learned to contemplate the sacred myste-
ries of the Bible with submissive veneration.

Xll

Unskilled in the figurative language of poetic
instruction, or lost in the raptured soarings and
sublimities of historic inspiration, they took
poetic licence for truth, and the wild, unbridled
flights of Eastern personification were the re-
velation of Heaven, written with the finger
of the Deity. The Bible was put into every
youthful hand, with ' This is the hand-writing
of God.' Every sentence was taken as it is
written in the close fidelity of translation.
Hence arose that superstitious belief in wizards,
witches, and familiar spirits, the popular creed
of heathenism.1' The Cottars devoutly opened

b Perhaps natural taste and reason will never be able to
banish these phantoms from a Scottish mind. To this
day many of the good old people of Galloway thus turn
the sacred denunciation of prophecy against sceptics and
emendators :

' For I testify unto every man that heareth the words
' of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto
' these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that
' are written in this book : And if any man shall take
' away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God
' shall take away his part out of the book of life, and
' out of the holy city.' Rev. xxii. 18, J 9.

Xlll

the book of God every evening, and on every
sabbath morning, to offer thanksgivings and
praises, and to instruct and admonish their
children. The holy Songs of David were com-
mitted to memory to be allied to the church
melodies. The mind received from these a cast
and impressure of thoughtful melancholy,
which often exalts it to the noblest concep-
tions. A rigid moral austerity, and severity of
religious conversation, were the consequences
of their long struggles with English supremacy,
and formed no part of their natural constitu-
tion; on the contrary they were ever ready to
mingle in the pleasant mirth of society. Their
ancient music still lingered among them, a pro-
scribed fugitive of religious zeal : wedded
to those old Songs and ballads, the favour-
ites of every age, it was beyond the power of
banishment. This love of music and poetry was
privately fostered by the old men and women.
It had been their own delight and amusement,
and they loved to cherish the fond remem-
brance of other years. They appointed meet-
ings at each other's houses for dancing and

XIV

singing, to which, at the close of day-toil, the
lads and lasses would hasten for several miles
round. Here they sung, accompanied by the
violin or lowland pipe. The old men recounted
the exploits and religious struggles of their
ancestors, and mingled in the song, or joined
in the dance.

Enraptured with their music, and emulous
of praise, the youths cultivated those seeds of
poesy which are more or less to be found in
every lover's heart. In the presence of those
whom they loved, they strove to excel in the
strains of tender complaint or pathetic appeal,
which were sung and so much admired by their
mistresses. Inspired with such sensations, they
caught up the prominent features of their
adventures, and sung of their jealousies and
wooing felicities, in numbers worthy of re-
membrance. To the heart of a Scottish pea-
sant it is a sensation of divine rapture to listen
and behold his beloved lass warble, and sweetly
modulate those strains to which her tender
heart and beautiful face had imparted sympa-

XV

thelic loveliness. The interview at some fa-
vourite secluded thorn, in the dew of gloam-
ing— the stolen looks of love; the midnight
meeting of chaste affection ; the secret kiss
and unheard whisper in the dancings and
trystes, are the favourite themes of poetic
record. These songs were sung before the
aged ; and their praise, with the kind looks of
approval from their mistresses, was a reward
sufficient to stimulate to nobler exertion. Old
songs were altered to suit some more recent oc-
currence ; their language was frequently minted
anew, and the song would take a novel appear-
ance from a small incident of love, or a gallant
exploit.

To those public dancing trystes the daugh-
ters of the chieftains would sometimes go in
peasants' disguise; possibly to partake in the
rural felicities of unrestrained gaiety and frolic,
or, perhaps, smitten with the charms of some
young peasant, they wished to listen to the na-
tural eloquence of love, and the fervent pathos
of rustic wooing. There are yet some remnants
of son^s which evidently allude to rencounters

XVI

of this kind, and many more might, perhaps,
have been collected on a more diligent search.
The language of the peasantry has none of
that vulgar broadness so disgusting in those
sea-coast towns which commerce has corrupted.
Imagery, drawn from the select resources of
nature, will clothe itself in chaste and becom-
ing language : the summer wind — the gloaming
dewfall among the loose locks of a lovely
maiden — the flower-tops bent with dew — the
balmy smell of the woods — the honey-combs
of the wild bee — afford fine poetic figures,
which nought but profligacy can pollute or mis-
apply. The crimson brook-rose, the yellow-
freckled lily, the red-lipped gowan, the pale
primrose, the mealy cowslip, the imbedding
thyme, are flourishing in rustic pastoral; — and
the rich scented hawthorn, the honey-leafed
oak, the tasseling honey-suekle, and the bloomy
promise of the orchards and bean fields, em-
balm themselves in Song, as pure as the dew
which the hand of evening drops on them.
But the tender eloquence of the new-paired
birds, and the infant song of the new-flown

XVII

nestlings were happily caught by peasant dis-
cernment:

' The new-paired laverocs among the bloomy howes,
Sing kindlie to my Mary while she ca's home the
ewes.'

The lark is a chief favourite: and beinsj the
herald of morning, sings over head to the swain
returning from the errands of love, who natu-
turally puts his own felicities in her mouth.
The wild and mellow Mavis, the loud-lilt-
ing Blackbird, the familiar Rose-linnet, the
lively Gold-spink, are all classical songsters,
whose warblings are pleasing to a lover's ear.
From the sacred pages of the Bible the pea-
santry drew many of their finest ideas and
imagery. It imparted a tone of solemn sin-
cerity to tin; promises of love, and gave them
a more popular currency among the aged and
decorous. Another source of instruction, was
tin; select code of Proverbs which wisdom had
stored up in the progress of society; these,
b

XV111

being short and happily figurative, were the
current coin of primitive converse.

Owing to the great distance between the
chieftain and cottar these productions never
passed into the notice of the great. Composed
and sung in unaspiring obscurity, their authors
never attempted to hold them up to public
notice. The applause at a country wedding,
at a Kirn dancing, at a Kirk supper, after a
bridal, satisfied the bard's vanity : and, perhaps,
the secret assurance that his sweetheart would
live in his verses among her great grand-chil-
dren, was the utmost bound of his ambition.
The Scottish peasantry have within these dozen
years completely overturned their ancient cus-
toms. The hurrying progress of agriculture, with
the load of taxes, call for heavier labours than
the evening dance, or the gaieties of song; vet
^till they possess much of that romantic spirit
of love-adventure and intrigue which the chi-
valrous feats of knight-errantry amours had
sown amona; them. There is a noble daring-
ness, and an aspiring stretch of mind in many
of the Jowly rustics which might grace a

XIX

princely cavalier of the clays of feudal adven-
ture. Love-songs are early imprinted on every
mind, and music accompanies them : Nothing
then is required to make a poetic peasant, but
to have his heart warmly touched with the vir-
gin-fingers of love. Careless and unknowing
of any fame beyond his mistress's will and ap-
proval, he writes from his heart and soul ! He
writes love as he feels it; and fills his song
with those beautiful traits of real affection
which lovers alone can feel or write. In him
there is no covert expression, nor overweening
affectation; nothing of that silky texture of
versification, nor of those hereditary classical
images and ideas which Courtly love has sanc-
tioned. He knows only the language of na-
ture, and the imagery of affection. He under-
stands lit lie about those unapproachable civili-
ties of love; that chivalrous adoration, and
awe-smitten reverence of comportment which
are so much cried up hv the gcnt/e critics, and
ladies of exccssivelv polished minds, and sick-
ened sensibility. But the ' trvsted hour' at
even; the' endearing and familiar confidence ot

XX

the short ' arm-grips' of love; mutual pro-
mises, sealed by holy kisses: — these are the
seeds of lovers' poesy, and the heaven which
prompts inspiration!

The dancings and revelry at hallow-een;
the tryster dances and singing; the New-year's-
day diversions; in short all the ' old use and
wonts' of their fathers have almost entirely dis-
appeared. They are certainly much better edu-
cated than ever; almost every pupil in the low-
land schools being instructed inEnglish grammar
and in the rudiments of the Latin tongue.0 But
they begin to lose their vigorous originality of
character, by attempting to copy the more po-
lished and artificial manners of their neigh-
bours.

c Mr. James Gray, of the Edinburgh High School, a man
<jf learning and acute observation, informed me that in the
whole course of his life he never met but one Scotchman
among the lower classes of society, who was ignorant of
reading and writing. From this fact, we may partly ac-
count for the superiority of the peasantry of Scotland over
-•hose of every other country.

XXI

So great and rapid, indeed, has been the
change, that in a few years the Songs and Bal-
lads here selected would have been irrecover-
ably forgotten.

The old cottars (the trysters of other years)
are mostly dead in good old age; and their
children are pursuing the bustle of commerce,
frequently in foreign climates. The names of
their bards have been sought after in vain ;
they live only in Song, where they have cele-
brated their social attachments.

It is affecting to think that poets capable
perhaps, of the wild creations of Milton ; the
bewitching landscapes and tenderness of Thom-
son ; the faithful nature of Ramsay ; or the sub-
limity, eloquent pathos, and humour of Burns;
it is affecting to think that they lie below the
turf, and all that can now be redeemed from
the oblivious wreck of their genius is a lew so-
litary fragments of Song! But these remnants
show i he richness of the minds w Inch produced
them; they impress us with a noble idea of
peasant abilities, and a. sacred reverence for
th<ir memorv.

XX11

Such might have been the fate even of
Robert Burns, had not a happy combi-
nation of adverse and fortunate circumstances
brought his works before the public tribunal.
Some stranger might a short while hence,
have been gathering up the ruins of his
mighty genius, and wondering while he col-
lected them in morsels from the remembrance
of tradition; nor need it be deemed extrava-
gant to assert, that Nithsdale and Galloway
have at some period of fifty years back, nou-
rished among their harvesting and their pasto-
ral vallies, a rustic bard, who sung the loves
and feelings of his fellow-peasants, and who be-
moaned in undying strains, the deplorable ra-
vages of 1745, and, perhaps, shared in the
general and desolating ruin.

With the Revolution commences the era of
Jacobite Song. The romantic spirit of warrior-
adventure had begun to leave the Scotch. It
hovered around them like a decaying flame,
after the quenching of those deadly feuds which
feasted on the richest blood of the sister
kingdoms. Those warlike Songs which stirred

XX111

the valour of their ancestors began to fade
along with it. The quarrels of rival houses,
and private family-broils had now entirely
ceased; and the Caledonian muse was doffing
her steely weeds, and piping of rural love, and
sweet tranquillity, when the fatal Rebellion of
1715 restored the gory plumes to her cap, and
wreathed her brows with laurels dripping in
the blood of her country. It was but a mo-
mentary glimpse for the poetic exploit of war-
like ballad : but among the peasantry it gained
a surer hold. They beheld, with a pity prompt
on revenge, the fall of many of their most po-
pular nobility. They were secretly attached to
their beloved Stuarts. This was the rise of
many of their finest Jacobite ballads and songs,
which, for bitter humour, and manly feeling,
are scarcely surpassed by the compositions of
anv age or nation.

The rash and disastrous attempt of the brave,
the gallant, but unfortunate C/iar/es, drew on
unhappy Scotland the awful punishment at-
(i.v'l to Rebellion; a punishment that was in-
llicHd with -o unit lentiii'' a hand, thai the

XXIV

prophecy of the fanatic Peden seemed now
fully accomplished — ' Scotland ! the time is
nigh when we may ride fifty miles 'mang thy
hills and thy vallies, nor find a reeking house,
nor hear a crawing cock.'

This is the second era of Jacobite Song.
Many of the afflicting and plaintive kind be-
long to this period. The awful visitations of
the Duke of Cumberland are yet remembered
among the peasantry with horror ! His savage
butcheries deeply imprinted themselves into
the hearts of the Scotch. The Songs and frag-
ments which are here gleaned from among the
peasantry bear evidence of this; they want the
playful irony which figures in the productions
of their predecessors, and seem touched with
the heavy hand of sorrow and grief.

It would be superfluous to offer any apology
for the political tendency of these .Jacobite
Ballads. Time has now softened down those
animosities which, at a former period, would
have invoked the rigour of the law on those
who ventured to sympathize in the fate of the
unfortunate Chevalier, or to praise the loyalty

XXV

of his adherents ; and a Briton can now enter
into the feelings and attachments of his ances-
tors without having the rod of prosecution
held over him. The rival claims of Stuart and
Brunswick are to the present generation no
more a matter of dispute than those of York
and Lancaster: they have been for ever set at
rest by the total extinction of the ancient line
of the native kings of England. In this, as in
all our civil wars, the question of right has
been decided by an appeal to arms; and the
victorious party has claimed the privilege of
branding the vanquished with the stigma of
rebellion. It is a wise remark of the patriotic
Fletcher, that, ' as the most just and honour-
' able enterprizes when they fail, are accounted
' in the number of rebellions; so all attempts,
' however unjust, if they succeed, always purge
' themselves of all guilt and suspicion.' Pos-
terity, however, are bound to do justice; to the
character of those men who devoted their lives
to what ///<'// conceived to be the |iist cause;
their fidelity and loyally have a double claim
'in our respect, when we consider that thev

xxvi

were our ancestors — our countrymen ; and that
they were denounced as traitors only because
they were unsuccessful. It is remarkable, that
on the side of Prince Charles, all the national
poets have ranged themselves, from those who
flourished in his day, down to Burns and Camp-
bell. A romantic enthusiasm, and a warmth
of feeling, have occasioned this partiality ; and
the Editor cannot but avow, that he was
prompted by a portion of kindred sentiment,
to follow, at an humble distance, in presenting
these Remains of Scottish loyalty to a liberal
and enlightened public.

These Ballads and Solids are cleaned from
among the peasantry of Nitltedale, and the
skirts of Galloway, adjoining to it. They were
never printed before, and are ripe in the senti-
ments and feelings of their forefathers, and
often deliciously mixed with their humour. To
those who wish to know how the peasantry
think and feel, these Remains will be accept-
able. They may be considered as so many
unhewn altars raised to rural Jove, and local
humour and opinion, by the Genius of un-
lettered rusticity.

XXV11

In works of compilation like the present, the
labour of an Editor, however severe, is least
apparent, and as far as regards the public, of
very inferior consideration. It may be proper,
however, to say a few words respecting the re-
marks which are interspersed through the pre-
sent volume.

It has been my purpose to avoid the mistake
into which collectors are prone to fall, of heap-
ing on their materials a mass of extraneous
lumber in the shape of facts and dates, of mi-
nute discussions and conjectural emendations,
equally perplexing to themselves and to the
reader. It is by no means a subject of boast
that I have avoided tliis reproach, for, circum-
stanced as I was, to have incurred it would
have been unpardonable.

In the progress of this collection, it was ne-
cessary to have personal intercourse with the
peasantry, in whose traditions these Remains
were preserved. From a race of men so in-
teresting, and so rich in original character,
volumes of curious and valuable remark might
be gathered: hence lr<>m acces- lo a mine so

XX VIII

abundant, it was more a business of selection
than of toil, to derive details which might esta-
blish what was doubtful, and illustrate what
was obscure. At the same time these Remains
by exhibiting masterly sketches of the popular
genius which produced them, naturally excite
a curiosity in readers of every taste, to behold
the portrait more fully delineated. Presuming
on the excitement of this curiosity, I have ven-
tured to describe, at some length, the domestic
manners, the rural occupations, the passions,
the attachments, the prejudices, and the super-
stitions which characterise the peasantry of
jSithsdale and Galloway.

These details were in part necessary to make
the poetry understood, and if they should have
exceeded the bounds which a rigid Critic might
prescribe, they will not, it is hoped, be con-
sidered wholly irrelevant to the purpose I have
had in view.

In point of style, they lay no claim to the
praise of elegance or refinement; for as they
were dictated by strictly local observation,
they were written with a sole regard to fidelity

xxix

and truth. Should the outline he found correct,
the colouring vivid, and the whole likeness
striking, it is a matter of very little moment
that the picture appear unreeommended hy the
graces of laborious embellishment.

I cannot dismiss this volume without grate-
fully acknowledging the ready assistance I re-
ceived while collecting the materials, from all
persons to whom my design was communicated;
particularly from Mrs. Copland, of Dalbeattie,
in Galloway, and her niece ]\liss Macartney,
and likewise from Mr. Allan Cunningham, of
Dumfries.

Mrs. Copland's exquisite taste has rescued
from oblivion many fine remains of Song; and
has illustrated them by remarks equally curious
and valuable. On a review of the interesting
communications with which she; has enriched
this collection, the reader will regret that her
literary diffidence should have at ail restrained
her pen in a task which it was so well quali-
fied to perform. If were but justice to ac-
knowledge the benefit which these communi-
cations have conferred on the Editor; but his

XXX

own feelings prompt him to a warmer ex-
pression of gratitude for her benevolence in
opening to him those hidden treasures of Scot-
tish Song, of which he had been so earnestly
in search. To her lovely and amiable niece,
Miss Macartney, he would also offer the ho-
mage of his thanks as to the Rural Muse of
Galloway, who, with a magic hand, had awak-
ened those native strains which were the de-
light of a simple and pastoral age; and which,
in the bustle of commerce, are no longer heard.
To Mr. Allan Cunningham, who, in the
humble and laborious profession of a mason,
has devoted his leisure hours to the cultiva-
tion (;f a genius naturally of the first order,
I cannot sufficiently express my obligations.
He entered into my design with the enthu-
siasm of a poet; and was my guide through
the rural haunts of Nithsdale and Galloway;
where his variously interesting and animated
conversation beguiled the tediousness of the
toil; while his local knowledge, his refined
taste, and his indefatigable industry, drew
from obscurity many pieces which adorn this

XXXI

collection, and which, without his aid, would
have eluded mv research.

To those of* his own countrymen who dis-
relish every thing that is of Scottish growth,
merely because they do not understand, or
are not accustomed to it, the Editor fore-
see* that these Native Songsters will not be
very welcome. Even one of the first among
living English poets once observed to him, in
a conversation respecting Burns, that ' he
was a clever fellozo; but it was a pity he wrote
in such a strange, outlandish dialect!'

To this sort of prejudiced people an argu-
ment will not avail ; and, perhaps, the follow-
ing little story may be thrown away upon
them.

< A country gentleman from the west of
Scotland, being occasionally in England for ;i
tew weeks, was, one delightful summer even-
ing, a>ked to hear the nightingale; his friend
informing him ;it the same time, that this bird
wa* a native of England, and never to he heard

XXX11

in his own country. After he had listened with
attention, for some time, upon being asked, if
he was not much delighted with the night-
ingale, ' It's a' very gude,' replied he, ' it's a'
very gude ; but I wadna gie the wheeple of a
wkaap for a' the nightingales that ever sang.'

R. H. C.

London,
July, 1810.

17

These elegiac verses, though in some instances they
pass the bounds of the simple and natural pathetic, ex-
press strongly the mingled feelings of grief and devo-
tion which follow the loss of some beloved object.
There are degrees of affliction corresponding with the
degrees of our attachment and regard, and surely the
most tender of attachments must be deplored by afflic-
tion the most poignant. This may account for, and ex-
cuse those expressions in this Song, which border on
extravagance 5 but it must be confessed that the first
stanza, with every allowance, is reprehensible from its
open and daring confidence in the Deity. The rest are
written in a strain of solemn and feeling eloquence
which must find an echo in every bosom. The effusion
is somewhat too serious for a song; it has all the holi-
ness of a psalm, and would surfer profanation by being
set to a common tune.

18

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD,
MY JEANIE.

(galloway, and nithsdale.)

These verses are copied from the recitation
of a worthy old man, now * raked i' the mools,'
as the Scotch phrase is. With him have
perished many beautiful songs, remnants of the
times which were. He was a dissenter from
the church of Scotland, and had all that stern
severity of demeanour, and rigidness of mind,
which belong to those trained in the old school
of divinity, under the iron discipline of Scottish
Presbyterianism. Yet when kept aloof from
religious dispute, when his native goodness was
not touched with the sour leaven of bigotry, lie
was a man, as we may truly say with scripture,
' after God's own heart.' There is a characte-
ristic trait of him which will lighten the dark-
ness of superstition which gave it birth. In

19

that violent persecution"1 in the reigns of James
the seventh, and the second Charles, one of the
persecuted preachers took refuge among the wild
hills behind Kirkmahoe, in the county of Dum-
fries. On a beautiful green-topped hill, called
the Wardlazi), was raised a pulpit of sods, where
he preached to his congregation. General
Dalze/l hastened on with his dragoons, and
dispersed the assembly : — this consecrated the
spot. Our worthy old patriarch, in the fine
sabbath evenings, would go with his wife and
children to the Wardlaw, though some miles
of rough road distant, — seat himself in the
preacher's place, and 'take the Beuk,' n with his
family around him. He kneeled down, and
with all the flow of religious eloquence, held
converse with his God. This song was his
favourite, and he usually sung it at Halloweens,
at Kirk-suppers, and other Trystes.

1,1 See the Appendix (H.) " See the Appendix (C.)

20

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD,
MY JEANIE.

i.
Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,

By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in Heaven,

That thou wad ay be mine!
And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,

And by that kind heart o' thine,
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou shalt ay be mine !
ii.
Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands,

An' the heart that wad part sic love;
But there's nae hand can loose my band,

But the finger o' God above.
Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,

An' my claithing e'er sae mean,
[ wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean !

21

in.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,

Fu' safter than the down,
An luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind, wings

An' sweetly I'd sleep an' soun'.
Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve,

Come here and kneel wi' me,
The morn is fu' o' the presence o' my God,

An' I canna pray but ° thee.

IV.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o new
flowers,

The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie,
Our gude-man leans owre his Kale-yard dyke,

An' a blythe auld bodie is he.
The Beuk maun he taenwhanthecarlecomeshame,

Wi' the holie psalmodie,
And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And 1 will speak o' thee!

This exquisite mixture ot love, and reverence to
God, is hardly paralleled in the annals of song. Ir is

0 /■///, without.

22

warmly touched with the holy breath of love, and yet
may well beseem the devotional lips of the good old
man who did it honour by singing it. It seems to have
been written in those fluctuating times, when the
hands which were taking the Beuk would have been
reeking with blood ; when the field of deadly strife be-
came in a few minutes the consecrated ground of re-
ligious devotion. In those times love was tempered
with religion ; books were composed in support of this
extraordinary union. This song is a fine example of de-
votion, chastening the passion of love so as not to ex-
tinguish but to refine it to a purer flame. When the
turbulence of war had subsided there was time for ap-
preciating the blessings of repose, and for composing
songs glowing with rural imagery, and ripe with rural
sentiment.

To these times this song evidently belongs. Men
then talked openly of conversing with God, and of
wrestling with him in prayer.

' An* thou maun speak o' me to thy God,
An' I will speak o' thee.' p

P These sentiments proceed from that strong and daring
familiarity which enthusiasm inspires, and which conscious
worth dictates. In the life of Alexander Peden a prayer is

23

His invitation of the maiden to come and kneel be-
side him is natively characteristic :

' The morning is fu' o' the presence o' my God,
An I canna pray but thee.'

preserved which affords a singular illustration of this re-
mark. This prayer was made after the last sermon he
preached, in which he thus addresses the Deity : 'Lord,
thou hast been both good and kind to old Satiny, through a
long tract of time, and given him many years in thy service,
which lias been but as so many months : but now he is tired
of thy world, and hath done all the good in it that he will
do, let him awa with the honesty that he has, for he will
gather no more.'

Alexander Peden is the patriarch of the Cameronian sect.
Hi- prophecies were gleaned about the year l/~0, from the
voice of tradition, and interwoven with his Memoirs !>y
one of his enthusiastic disciples, who believed he saw his de-
nunciations faithfully fulfilling. They are written with great
earnestness and simplicity. The volume was long a school-
hook in the private seminaries of Cameronian discipline.

Fcden was of a character admirably adapted to meet the
exigencies of the persecuting times in which he lived. He
had great personal courage accompanied with an astonishing
promptitude of mind. A firm believer in those powerful
visions of futurity which a vivid imagination presented to
him, he was stern and severe in his manners; hence his re-

24

There is a fragment of an old ballad which will
exemplify in a beautiful but affecting manner, those
religious and amorous mixtures of which we have been
speaking.

It is given from the recitation of Miss Catherine
Macartney.

LADIE JEAN'S LUVE,

A FRAGMENT.

* * * *

Bluidie was the braid saddle lap,

An' bluidie was the crupper,
An bluidie were my true hive's hands

As we sat down to supper.

There's water i' the siller dish ;

Gae wash tliae hands sae bluidie: —
But my luve washed i' the water clear,

An' never made it ruddie.

bukes had the air of denunciation, and his ' depart from me,
ye cursed' was delivered, not in the savage anathematizing
tone of a Romish prelate, but with the calm dignity of a
Being impressed with the belief of an exalted and immediate
intercourse with the Deity himself.

9.5

An' he took up the snawie claitli,

Which my twa hands did border,
He rubbed ay on his bluidie hands,

An' never made it redder.

An' ay he dighted his wat, wat cheek,
While the holie beuk was bringing,

An' ay he looked on his bluidie hands,
While the Psalm was singing.

An' ' Let us pray,' quo' the gude old carle,

An ' Let us pray,' quo' he;
But my love sat on the lang-settle,

An' never a knee bent he.

' Kneel down, kneel down,' quo the gude old carle,
' Kneel down, an' pray wi me ; — '

( ) there's mercy wi God for thee, auld carle,
But there's nae mercy fur me.
•* * * *

Familiar simplicity, pourtraying the emotions of the
heart, in those fine traits which so strongly express the
peculiar feelings and tints of character belonging to
their period of composition, is the marked feature of
Scottish song. An ingenious antiquary might collect
from these ballads and songs, could their dates be as-

26

certained, the local history of feeling and ideas, which
shoot forth in the progress of society. These are pe-
culiar to certain districts of country. The following
verse may be adduced as fitting the Lowlands, where
the severe sense of deep religion is strikingly visible in
every old person. It is a pious address of a mother
to a daughter, concerning her lover.

He disna tak the Beuk :

Een's the mair pitie !
He says nae grace to his meat,

An' graceless maun he be : —
Whan he's nae gratefu' to his God,

He canna be guid to thee.

A noble sentiment, which ought to be written in let-
ters of gold !

There is another stray verse, which, though told with
a little more sprightliness, is cast in the same mint of
opinion with the preceding :

My lad canna kneel at the Beuk
For fyling the knees o' his breeks,

His cheeks are tosie q and dry,
Whan tears are on a' our cheeks.

' Tosie, a chcarful glow on the countenance.

27

He downa sing at the Psalm

For spoiling his mim, mini mou :

The lips which sing na to God,
Should never a maiden woo.

There are now perhaps few maidens who would re-
fuse a husband for these psalm-singing failings.

Specimens might be multiplied by an assiduous col-
lector:—

His lips are nae psalm-lips,

Tent what I'm saying;
Fu' o' sang-profanity,

Ken nought o praying :
Sac trimlie he fits the reel

Wi' ilka gawkie,
He'll dance wi' ye, ' O'er Bogie,' '
Maiden, and wrack ye.

The Deil's legs bore him
I' the road o' grace ance,

r Alluding to an old son<r, of which nothing remains but
the chorus.

' 1 will awa wi my love,

1 will awa wi her,
Tho' a' my kin bad sworn and said
I'll a' rr Bogie wi ber.'

28

Whan he set weel the sacking-gown,
I* the stool o' Repentance' . s

Dancing was and is yet counted a heinous sin with
some of those sects, overstrait-laced in Calvinism.

Sermons were composed on the immodesty of de-
meanour and loose ideas engendered by dancing. Some
tolerated it in this extraordinary way. ' The lads and
lasses must dance with their backs to one another, for
the warm intermixture of breath smells too rank of
fornication.' :

s A description of this vile stool will be found in the Ap-
pendix (D.)

1 ' The most innocent amusements and the most profli-
gate dissipation were alike proscribed. Cards and dancing
were interdicted as snares of Satan, dangerous, or at least
unsuitable to the people of God. The feasts and domestic
pastimes appropriated to the winter-solstice, the revels and
public diversions of the people, even the Christmas recess of
the Courts of Law, were suppressed as superstitious ; the
sports of the field were forbidden to the clergy; nor durst the
most popular amongst them indulge in the most innocent
recreations, without a dispensation from the Presbytery for
the preservation of their health.'

Laing's Hist, of Scotland, iii. 430.

29

The last fragment seems to be a satire on religious
advices in the choice of lovers. It is put into the mouth
of one of those Jeerie auld wives who can walk upon
the very edge of delicacy in their advice, and counsel in
the real spirit of broad humour.

That these songs are mostly forgotten, or only re-
membered in fragments, must be attributed to the fea-
tures of Calvinism softening from their strictness into
the milder glow of affection and good-will.

30

THE BROKEN HEART OF ANNIE.

Here's a dud to hap its head,
An' a clout to rowe u the feetie o't, —
Here's twa arms can nurse it weel,
Twa een can greet wi' pity o't.
But whare's my mither a' the while?
She'll hear the wee, wee greetie o't.

O lie thee still, my sweet, wee babe,
Lift na« thy white wee hannie, O ;
Thou art thy father frae the chin to the ee,
But sue fause as him thou cannie, O.
O, if thou pruive as fause as him
Thou hast nae't frae thy mammie, O.

Its nae thy govvd, nor thy siller clear,
Nor thy laced caps sae bonnie, O —
Can gie me back that peace I tint,

" To rowe, to roll

31

Or heal the heart of Annie O ! —

But speak to thy God of the vows ye broke,

For ye hae broken monie, 0.x

x This faithful picture of the feelings of a smitten heart
has an affecting parallel in a female's address to her infant,
printed in a work called the Northern Lass, or the Nest of
Fools, l606*.

Peace, wayward Bairn : o cease thy mone,
Thy far more wayward daddy's gone,
And never will recalled be,
By cries of either thee or me: —
For should we cry,
Until we die,
We could not scant his cruelty.

Ballow, Ballow, &c.
He needs might in himself foresee,
What thou successively might'st be;
And could he then, though me forego,
His infant leave, ere he did know
How like the dad
Would be the lad
In time to make fond maidens glad.

Ballow, Ballow, Hcc.

32

HABBIE'S FRAE HAME.

(galloway.)

By the side o' yon cleugh,? whare the bumie rins
shill,

A lassie sat sighing and spinning her lane:
' O, gin the waes o' my heart wad lie still; —
There'll never be peaee till our Habbie comes
hame.

' As my wheel gaes round, my lint I spread,
Lint that I mean for bibs to my bairn;

The warp shall be blue, and the waft shall be red,
An' how braw we'll be a' whan our Habbie
comes hame.

' That morning he left us our cock never crew,
Our gray clocking hen she gaed keckling her
lane ;

The Gowk frae the craft never cried ' cuckoo!'
That wcarifu' morning our Habbie left hame.

■v Cleugh, the cleft of a hill, a woody recess.

33

1 Whan the wind blaws loud and tirls our strae,
An' a' our house-sides are dreeping wi' rain,

An' ilka burn rows frae the bank to the brae,
I weep for our Habbie wha rows i' the main.

' Whan the wars are owre, an' quiet is the sea,
Onboard the Culloden our Hab will come hame :

My slumbers will then be as sweet as the Dee,
An' how blythe we'll be a' whan our Habbie
comes hame.'

34

THE RETURN OF SPRING.
(galloway.)

I.

Cauld winter is awa, my luve,

And spring is in her prime,
The breath o' God stirs a' to life,

The grashoppers to chime :
The birds canna contain themsels

Upon the sprouting tree,
But loudlie, loudlie sing o' luve,

A theme which pleaseth me.
ii.
The blackbird is a pawkie loum

An' kens the gate o' luve;
Fu' weel the sleekit mavis kens

The melting lilt maun muve.
The gowdspink woos in gentle note,

And ever singeth he,
' Come here, come here, my spousal dame/

A theme which pleaseth me.

35

in.
What says the sangster Rose-linnet ?

His breast is beating high, ■
' Come here, come here, my ruddie mate,

The gate o' luve to try.'
The lav'roc calls his freckled mate,

Frae near the sun's ee-bree,
' Come make on the knowe our nest of luve,'

A theme which plcaseth me.

IV.

The hares hae brought forth twins, my luve,

Sae has the cushat doo ; x
The raven croaks a safter way,

His sootic luve to woo:
And nought but luve, luve breathes around,

Frae hedge, frae field, an' tree,
Soft whispering luve to Jeanie's heart,

A theme which plcaseth me.
v.
O Lassie, is thy heart mair hard

Than mavis frae the bough;
Say maun the hale creation wed,

And Jean remain to woo?

x Cushat duo, the stockdove.

36

Say has the holie lowc o' hive
Ne'er lighten'd in your ee?

O, if thou canst na feel for pain,
Thou art nae theme for me!

This song was procured from the young girl who
preserved the stanzas beginning ' She's gane to dwall
in Heaven.' Her remarks are strikingly correct.

' This sweet and spirited song contains an amiable
portrait of a fine and virtuous mind. The birds are all
of the soft and tender kind, and we even think we
hear their melody. The timidity of the hare is a
happy emblem of the retiring shyness of the female
character. The woodpigeons, and the raven, soften-
ing his uncouthness at the voice of love, are happy,
and well imagined. The opening of the song pre-
sents a beautiful picture of spring — the breath of God
stirring the whole creation to life — that warm and
renovating influence of spring — ' the birds canna con-
tain themsels,' is pregnant with love. It is, on the
whole, a pretty example of Scottish pastoral.

' It used to be sung at haymakings by young lads :
and the girls repeated the last line of the verses along

37

with them. There is an old song which I heard my
aunt singing, that appears to me spirited and natural.'

My lassie's come to our town,

To our town to dwall a wee,
An', haith! wi' me she's kindlie grown,

Her twa blue een they tell me sae.
Kind luve's 'neath her ee-bree

And aft I court it (Gude forgie me!)
I' the kirk whare nane but God can see me;

Rut lover's looks maun halie be.

What like may your lassie be,

The lassie wham ye lo'e sae weel ?

Kin' luve's in mony a ee,

For gleg's y the glance which lovers steal.

At the kirk look for the fairest,

At the dance look out the rarest,

An' haith ! in short love-grips the dearest,
Her kissing lips ay tell me sae.

> Gleg, quick.

J. 0 3 / 0 f

38

THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON
MILL.

i.

The lark had left the evening cloud,

The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers

Scarce stirred the thistle's tap o' down ;
The dappled swallow left the pool,

The stars were blinking owre the hill;
As I met amang the hawthorns green,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
II.
Her naked feet amang the grass,

Seemed like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair;
Her brows shone comely 'mang her locks,

Black curling owre her shouthers bare:
Her cheeks were rich wi* bloomy youth;

Her lips were like a honey well,
An' heaven seemed looking through her een,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

39

in.

Quo' I, *' fair lass, will ye gang wi' me,

Whare black cocks craw, and plovers cryr
Sax hills are wooly wi* my sheep,

Sax vales are lowing wi' my kye:
i hae looked lang lor a weel-faur'd lass,

By Nithsdale's howm.es an' monie a hill;' —
Slie hung her head like a dew-bent rose,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

IV.

Quo' I, 'sweet maiden, look nae down,

But gie's a kiss, and gae wi' me :'
A lovelier face, () ! never looked up,

And the tears were drappiug frae her ee:
' I liae a lad, wha's far awa,

That weel could win a woman's will;
My heart's already f'u' o' love,'

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
v.
1 O wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,

To seek for love in a far countrie?' —
Her tears drapped down like simmer dew,

I fain wad hike. kis»ed them frae her ee.

<'

40

I took but ane o' her comelie cheek ;

' For pity's sake, kind Sir, be still!
My heart is fu' o' ither love,'

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

VI.

She streeked to heaven her twa white hands,

And lifted up her watry ee;
' Sae lanu's mv heart kens ou«;ht o' God,

Or light is gladsome to my ee ; —
While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,

Till my last drap o' blood be still,
My heart sail baud nae ither love/

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

VII.

' There's comelie maids on Dee's wild banks,

And ISith's romantic vale is fu';
By lanely 'Clouden's hermit stream,

Dwalls monie a gentle dame, I trow !
O, they are lights of a bonnie kind,

As ever shone on vale or hill;
But tbere's a light puts them a' out,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

41
FRAGMENT.

(Recovered by Miss C. Macartney.)

Gane were but the winter-cauld, a
And gane were but the snaw,

I could sleep in the wild woods,
Whare primroses blaw.

Cauld's the snaw at my head,

And cauld at my feet,
And the linger o' death's at my een,

Closing them to sleep.

Let nane tell my father,

Or my mither sae dear,
I'll meet them baith in heaven,

At the spring o' the year.

The Editor was struck with the resemblance of the
following lines to the latter stanzas of the above frag-
ment. He heard them sung to a child, by an elderly

J i. e. It tlu- winter-cold were but none.

4L'

gentleman, who had learnt them, when a boy, in
Yorkshire. From the similarity of the sentiment, he is
inclined to suppose that they descended from one com-
mon source, or that the one is an imitation of the
other. To which of them the merit of originality be-
longs may be doubtful ; they are both exquisite ; but
there is a touch of pathos in these lines which goes
directly to the heart, and leaves a sentiment of pity
there, which the other piece fails immediately to excite.

Make me a grave in yon channel sae deep,
Lay a stone at my head, and another at my feet j
That there I may lie and take a lang sleep,
And adieu to my fause luve for ever I

A philosophic historian has somewhere observed, that
the pathetic consists in the detail of minute circum-
stances. The above fragment justifies the remark ; and
if the entire song could be recovered, it would doubt-
less afford an ampler illustration of it. Indeed the
most popular of our rustic ballads, when analyzed, are
found to consist of common-place figures, and homely
sentiments, conveyed in the plainest language ; yet
taken as a whole, they affect us more powerfully than
the elaborate and polished effusions of what may be
called the classic school of poetry. The simple and

43

wildly pleasing melodies which accompany them, are
perfectly characteristic, and equally surpass in effect
the more scientific strains of modern music. In listen-
ing to a rustic ballad we inquire not why we are
pleasedj it seizes our attention and captivates our
mind like a tale of enchantment, where ' more is
meant than meets the ear.' Probably its antiquity
tends to heighten the charm ; we yield more willingly
to the illusion when we consider that we are listening
to the same strains which delighted our forefathers,
and which depict the manners of the good old times.

Attempts have lately been made to revive this
primitive style of poetry, but thev have uniformly
proved abortive; and however closely they imitated
the ancient model, they were rejected, because they
were imitations. Perhaps a farther cause of the failure
arose from the difficulty of preserving the quaint sim-
plicity of the original without descending into puerility
and nonsense; or rather because the simplicity of the
original is natural, and that of the imitation affected.
Of all men of" cultivated genius, Sterne has most suc-
cessfully drawn from the true source of the pathetic;
his most moving scenes are often mere details of the
common occurrences of life, and he has contrived
from the most trifliutr incidents to awaken our ten-

44

derest sensibilities. Eut what in him is the result of
art, very artfully concealed, is in the unknown authors
of our rustic ballads the genuine prompting of unedu-
cated nature. They knew nothing of the philosophy
of the mind j they had no choice of the various modes
of eloquence by which the heart may be moved ; but
they followed an unerring rule; — they wrote from the
free impulse of their feelings, and they found a re-
sponse in every bosom. The voice of tradition has
confirmed their appeal to the heart, and the applause
of posterity has proved, that in a rude age, when the
light of reason is uncertain and doubtful, instinct may
be a safe and a faithful guide. The rustic ballads of
our ancestors are still the delight of every age, and of
every rank in life ; and in general those persons who
are most eminent for genius and taste are most enthu-
siastically charmed with them. As a splendid instance
of this truth, we may mention Shakspeare, who has
enriched many of his most pathetic scenes with frag-
ments of ancient song ; as in the tender grief of the
wronged Desdemona, or the melancholy of the dis-
tracted Ophelia. On some occasions he has intro-
duced them with a characteristic remark, as in his
comedy of Twelfth Night, where the Duke, a man of
taste and refinement, calls for the repetition of a song

45

which he had before heard, and which deeply affected
him by its unadorned simplicity, and rustic pathos.

' It is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.'

Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath ;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O, prepare it;
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lav me, ( ), where
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave,
To weep there.

46

THE AULD CARLE'S WELCOME.

The poetic merit of this song is considerably
enhanced from the circumstance of its being
founded on a peculiar custom which still pre-
vails in the Lowlands of Scotland.

' To wauke the auld year into the new,' is a
popular and expressive phrase for watching un-
til twelve o'clock announces the new year, when
people are ready at their neighbours' houses
with het-pints, and buttered cakes, eagerly wait-
ing to be first-foot, as it is termed, and to re-
gale the family yet in bed. Much care is taken
that the persons who enter be what are called
sonde folk , for on the admission of the first-foot
depends the prosperity or trouble of the year.

The Gudemans ' Welcome' to his JNeighbour
GudezciJ'e, here given, is an excellent picture of
fire-side felicity, and the old Scottish cast of
character. The remembered frolics of their

47

youthful days, and their heavenward look of
hereafter, present a truly patriarchal and in-
teresting scene.

I.

How's a' wi' my auld Dame,

— My sonsie Dame, my mensfu' dame;

How's a' the folk at hame,

Wi' the canty auld Gudeman, Jo?
Sit down in peace my winsome Dow,b
Tho' thin thy locks and beldc thy brow,
Thou ance were armfu' fit, I trow,

To mense a Kintra en', Jo. —
ii.
Ance on a day, in tryster time,
Whan in thy ee love blinkit prime
And through our teens we bore the gret

In ilka Kintra ha', Jo;
The lasses gloom'd whan thou did sing,
The lads leaned roun' thee in a ring,
While blythly I took up the spring,

And bore the mense awa, Jo!

>' Dow, dove. ' Held, bald.

48

in.
An', haith! at Kirns d we're canty yet,
Amang our Bairnses bonnie bairns;
At brydal shaw, or new house heat,

We thraw auld age awa, Jo!
Tho' past the younkers' trysting prime,
Our pows tho' strewed wi' winter's rime,
A\ e've linkit thro' a blythsome time, —

The gowden age awa, Jo !

IV.

A mirthfu' thing it is an' blythe,
To think on't yet, to think on't yet,
Tho' creeping to the grave belyve,

Were lifted wi' the thought, Jo!
We've fouchten teuch, an' warstled sail-,
Out thro' this warl' o' din an' care,
An', haith! we've something mair than prayer

To help a poor bodie, Jo !
v.
Reach me the Beuk, my winsome Jean,
My specks bring, and the bairns send in,
I'll wale a kind an' halie thing,

Seems written just for thee, Jo!

<l Kirns, the feast of harvest-home.

49

' The gude auldfolk God winna lea !'
Nor thrazc their bairns on the wide Kintrie;'b
Then blink fu' blythe, \vi' uplift ee,
Sin' God has taen our han', Jo!

b ' I have been young, and now am old, yet have I not
seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. '

Psalm xxxvii. 25.

50

A WEARY BODIE'S BLYTHE WHAN
THE SUN GANGS DOWN.

A weary bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down,
A weary bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down :
To smile wi' his wife, and to daute wi' his weans,
Wha vvadna be blythe whan the sun gangs down.

The simmer sun's lang, an' we're a' toiled sair,
Frae sun-rise to sun-set's a dreigh tack o' care ;
But at hame for to daute 'mang our wee bits o'

weans,
We think on our toils an' our cares nae mair.

The Saturday sun gangs ay sweetest down,
My bonnie boys leave their wark i' the town;
My heart loups light at my ain ingle side,
Whan my kin' blythe bairn-time is a sitting roun'.

The sabbath morning comes, an' warm lowes the

sun,
J Ik heart's fu* o' joy a' the parishen roun';

51

Round the hip o' the hill comes the sweet Psalm

tune,
An' the auld f'owk a' to the preaching are bowne.

The hearts o' the younkers loup lightsome, to see
The gladness which dwalls in their auld grannie's

ee;
An' they gather i' the sun,' side the green haw-tree,
Nae new-flown birds are sae mirthsome an' hie.

Tho' my sonsie dame's cheeks nae to auld age are

prief,
Tho' the roses which blumed there are smit i' the

leaf;
Tho' the young blinks o' luve hae a' died in her

ee,
She is bonnier an' dearer than ever to me!

Ance Poortith came in 'yont our Hallan to keek,
But my Jeanie was nursing an' singing sae sweet,
That she laid down her powks at anither door

cheek,
An steppit blythely ben her auld shanks for to

beek.

52

My hame is the Mailen weel stockit an' fu,
My bairns are the flocks an' the herds which I loo ; —
My Jeanie is the gowd an' delight o' my ee,
She's worth a hale lairdship o' Mailens to me !

O wha wad fade awa like a flower i' the dew,
An' nae leave a sprout for kind heaven to pu' ?
Wha wad rot 'mang the mools, like the trunk o'

the tree,
Wi' nae shoots the pride o' the forest to be !

53

The following unpublished verses contain a kindred
sentiment with the preceding. The reader will be
curious to see the same subject treated by a mere pea-
sant, and by an elegant and accomplished living writer,
Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton, author of ' The Cottagers
of Glenburnie.'

MY AIN FIRE-SIDE.

O, I hae seen great anes, and been in great ha's,
'Mang Lords and 'mang Ladies a' cover'd wi' braws ;
At feasts made for Princes, wi' Princes I've been,
Whar the great shine o' splendour has dazzled my een.
But a sight sac delightiu' I trow I ne'er 'spied,
As the bonn'.e blythe blink o' my ain tire-side.
My ain tire-side, my ain fire-side,
< )h, cheering's the blink o' my ain tire-side!

Anco mair, Guid be thankit! by my ain heartsome ingle,
Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle :
Nae form to compel me to seem wae or glad,
I may laugh when I'm merry — and sigh when I'm sad-
Nae fausehood to dreed, and nae malice to fear,
But truth to delight me— and friendship to chear, —
Of a' roads to happiness ever was tried,
There's nane half sae sure as ane's ain fire-side,
Ane's ain fire-side, ane's ain fire-side,
Oh! happiness sits by ane's ain fire-side !

54

When I draw in my stool on my cozie hearth-stane,
My heart loups sae light, I scarce ken't for my ain;
Care's flown on the winds — it's clean out o' sight,
Past sorrows they seem but as dreams o' the night;
I hear but kent voices; — kent faces I see,
And mark fond affection glint saft frae ilk ee;
Nae fleechings o' flattery — nae boastings o' pride,
'Tis heart speaks to heart, at ane's ain fire-side ;

My ain fire-side, my ain fire-side,

Oh ! there's nought to compare to my ain fire-side!

55

As the plaintive and amatory songs are now com-
pleted, we cannot dismiss them without taking notice
of their bold, original, and strongly-marked character.
There are no quaint allusions, nor covert indelicacy.
Although they come within the short arm -grips of love,
and abound with glowing kisses and clasps of ardent
affection, yet they every where retain a chastened re-
spect that accords with the delicacy of the female
mind. That sacred confidence which they have in
private love-meetings is the true mark of a virtuous
mind, and is peculiar to the character of the Scottish
maidens. The inner fences of modesty and virtue
which incase the heart, they hold inviolable, though
their unsuspecting innocence sometimes leaves the
outer works unguarded.

These songs contain fine pictures of rustic wooing,
faithfully drawn from rf-al life. They are a little
touched with the romantic spirit of chivalry, but this
gives them a higher and more dignified aspect.

The Persons who present themselves are none of
the fabled Arcadians : — shepherds and shepherdesses
who do nothing but pipe to their sheep, or plait gar-

56

lands for their hair. Nor have these pastorals an exu-
berance of roses and lilies, like our courtly English
ones, whose swains and nymphs resemble lords and
ladies parading among their vassals at the rental time,
who never smear sheep or blister their gloved hands
with shepherds' crooks. Nor are there any of the ap-
paratus of classical deification : - cloven-footed Pans,
satyrs, sylphs, and dryads, with all the light infantry
of fairy-freaks, or Bedlam personification. The broad,
but exquisite Doric of these reliques, is not obscured
by the antique foppery of heathen mythology; they
have nothing of foreign growth: — all is Scottish —
language and ideas. The lads and lasses are pure flesh
and blood j homely, every-day folks. Their kissings
and claspings are with earthly lips, and mortal arms.
The eloquence of their love is strongly impressed with
Scottish feelings, and beautifully embroidered with the
Scottish language, as it is spoken in Nithsdale and
part of Galloway .

Some acquaintance with the manners and customs
of the peasantry is absolutely necessary to have a relish
of all the beauties of these pastorals; yet there is a por-
tion of them that will be understood and admired by
every person: — that part which belongs to the general
outline of character which runs through all mankind.

SONGS

OK

THE NITHSDALE AND GALLOWAY
PEASANTRY.

CLASS II.

( HUMOROUS.)

59

THE PAWKY AULD KIMMER.'
(nithsdale, and galloway.)

I.

Th e r e's a pawky auldKimmerwons low i' the glen;
Nane kens how auld Kimmer maun fecht and maun

fen;
Kimmer gets maut, and Kimmer gets meal,
And cantie lives Kimmer, right couthie an' hale ;
Kimmer gets bread an' Kimmer gets cheese,
An' Kimmer' s uncannie een keep her at ease.
' I rede ye speak lowne, lest Kimmer should hear

ye;
Come sain'1 ye, come cross ye, an' Gudc be near
ye!' "

ii.
Kimmer can milk a hale loan of kye,
Yet sit at the ingle i'u' snug an' f'u' dry;

' See the Appendix (E) on Witchcraft.
d To sain, to bless.

' Bess sairid herself, ery'd, ' Lord, be here!'
And near-hand fell a-swoon for fear.'

The Monk and tup, Miller's Wife.

60

Kimmer a brown cowte o' poor Laurie made,
Whan she posted to Locherbrigg last Hallowmas

rade. e
Kimmer can sit i' the coat tails o' the moon,
And tipple gude wine at Brabant brewin'.

' I rede ye speak lowne, lest Kimmer should hear

ye;

Come sain ye, come cross ye, an' Gude be near
ye!'

in.
Kimmer can sit an' say, — ' E'en be 't sae ! '
An' red jowcs ' the Nith atween banking an brae ;
Kimmer can cast owre it her cantraips an' spells,
An' feerie, g can cross it in twa braid cockle

shells. —
The Laird spake to Kimmer tor his barren ladie,
An' soon gaed my Ladie coats kilted f'u' hie.
' I redeye speake lowne, lest Kimmer should hear

ye:
Conic sain ye, come cross ye, an' Gude be near
ye."

' This procession will be explained in the Appendix (E.)
i Jowcs, moves violently. E Feerie, cleverly, actively.

61

IV.

Kimmer was nae bidden whan the cannie wives

gade,
But for Kimmer they ran, an' for Kimmer they

rade :
Kimmer an' I are right couthie an' kin'
Or the Laird's ae daughter wad ne'er hae been

mine:
T creeshed weel kimmer's loof wi' howdving fee,
Or a cradle had ne'er a been totched1' for me!
' 1 rede ye speak lowne, lest Kimmer should hear

ye;
Come sain ye, come cross ye, an' Gude be near
ye!'

This curious old song belongs to those times of
witchcraft and delusion of which there are many
vestiges among the peasantry to this day. There are
' pawkie auld Kimmers' who can live by their ' un-
cannie een/ in many parishes of the Scottish Lowlands.

There is a story of one of these dames having meal,

'' Totching is the act of rocking the cradle gently with
i lie foot.

62

barley, cheese, &c. sent her to make her een look
kindly, and to compound for spoiled butter and elf-
shot kye. — Many marvels would be related in this
place of these cantraip dames, had not the genius of
discretion, at this critical moment, overshadowed the
Editor and his papers, whispering in his ear, —

' I rede ye speak lowne, lest Kimmer should hear ye j
Come sain ye, come cross ye, an' Gude be near ye!'

63

THE EWE-BUGHTS.1

This song was communicated to the Editor
by his friend Allan Cunningham, who learned
it when a boy, from a servant-girl belonging to
his father, an honest, cultivated farmer, an ac-
quaintance and neighbour of Burns, when he
lived at Ellisland. He never heard any one
sing it but herself.

1 ' In a MS. account of Selkirkshire, by Mr. John
Hodge, dated 1722, in the Advocates' library, he adds a
circumstance which has now become antiquated: 'That
there was then to be seen, at Tait's Cross, boitghted, and
milked, upwards of twelve thousand ewes, in the month of
June, about eigbt o'clock at night, at one view.' Boughted
js a verb, formed from the substantive bought, or buglit,
which meant a fold for ewes, while they were milked.'
Chalmers's Caledonia, Vol. II. (Note, p. Q7'i.)

64

THE EWE-BUGHTS.

i.
The lark dried his dewy wings i' the sun,

Aboon the rigs o' barley,
Whan a bonnie Jad came to my window bredd

Wi' me to haud a parley :
O are ye sleeping, my bonnie, bonnie lass,

Or are ye wauken I' ferlie?k
Will ye rise an' come to the faulds wi' me,

Our ewes are bleating sairlie ?
ii.
First I pat on my jupes sae green,

An' kilted my coaties rarely ;
Awa I gaed but stockings or shoon

Amang the dews sae pearlie !
He played his hand 'mang my lang brown hair,

An' kittled my white cheek fairlie,
Till his een o'erbrimmed wi' kin', kin' luve,

An' haith ! I pitied him sairlie.

k I ferlie, I wonder

65

in.

The sun it raise, an' better raise,

An' owre the hills lowed rarely;'
The wee lark sang, an' higher sang

Aboon the bearded barley.
We touzled sae lang on the sunny knowe-side,

Whare the gowan-heads hang pearlie,
That the bluidy,bluidyTodkhad worried a' thefaul

An' left my lad f'u' barely.

! Lowed, blazed. k Tod, the fox.

66

THE PAWKY LOON, THE MILLER.

i.

Young Peggy's to the mill gane

To sift her daddie's meller;
A kindlie maid I trow she was; —

A pawky loon the miller !
An' she coost aff her high heel'd shoon,

Laced down wi' thread o' siller ;
O maiden, kilt your kirtle high,

Quo' the young pawky miller.
ii.
The new-meal flushed the lassie's cheek,

Ere the black cock was crawing;
An' luve began to light her ee,

By the ruddie morn was dawing.
O dight, quo' she, yere mealy mou',

For my twa lips yere drauking;
But the pawky loon he keppit the words

Wi' his clapping and his smacking.

67

in.

Young Peggy has unkilt her coat,

An' hame she's gane fu' cheerlie ;
Aften she dighted her bonnie mealy mou,

An' lilted awa' fu' clearlie : —
Dustie is the miller's coat,

An' dustie is the colour;
An' mealie was the sweet, sweet kiss

Which I ,gat frae the miller ! '

IV.

O what has keeped ye, Peggy lass,

At sitting o' the meller r
An what has tufHed yere gowden locks,

Kepped up wi' kame o' siller ?
An hae ye been licking the mouter, lass,

Or kissing the dusty miller ? m
v.
A pawky cat came frae the mill, ee —

Wi' a bonnie, bowsie tailie,
An' it whiskit it cross my lips I trow,

Which made them a' sac mealie.

1 This verse used to he greatly admired by Burns, for its
characteristic and forcible expression. It may be found

in an old -ni^ of little merit, in the Musical Mu.vum.
''■ In Mimin::, the two la.-t lines of this ver»e are repeated.

68

An' three gude dams ran down the trows,

Before was grun' the meller.
An' I'm gaun baek for shellen seeds

To the young pawkie miller!

This old song has been long admired and sung by
the peasantry. There were many variations of it 5 this
is the best that could be found. It was transmitted
by the young girl, who has preserved so many reliques
of Nithsdale and Galloway song. These are her
words addressed to a Scottish poet.

* * * * < With regard to Peggy's
kilted coats, our right is just this — ' Kilt them up,'
quo' the auld wife, ' to the tying 0' yere garters.'
Prudery herself could not object to this. But these
high-kilted days are past, and the gude auld unthink-
ing customs of our ancestors appear indelicate to a re-
fined mind Should Peggy's kilted coats be too high
for your Bardship's second-sighted een, I beseech
you let down a trowse or twa o' them yoursel', and
don't let the nakedness of our lasses' legs offend the
more delicate een of their grand-daughters.

( Is it of use to tell you that I have known this old
song from my infancy sung by the old dames trained
in the homely school of broad local manners? Indeed

69

they frequently sung higher-kilted songs than this, with
as much modesty perhaps as the trained ladies sing the
smoother lipping verses of modern politeness.

' Ramsay says, in the preface to his Tea-Table
Miscellany , that he has kept out all smut and ribaldry.
The volumes bear evidence, according to modern man-
ners, against him. This is instance enough that our
manners, and customs, and opinions are altered.'

The above remarks lead to a question at once
curious and difficult of solution ; perhaps there are not
two men living who would decide alike upon it. The
taste of the present age rejects as gross and indelicate
those free compositions which our ancestors not only
countenanced but admired. The tales of Chaucer 5 the
scenes of Massinger, of Beaumont and Fletcher, and
even of Shakspeare, would not be tolerated in a modern
poet ; and if the applause with which those compo-
sitions were received be a test of their merit, we must
conclude that they were faithful pictures of the man-
ners of those times, and hence we may be ready to
congratulate ourselves, that the progress of virtue has
kept pace with that of refinement. Yet, in fact, the
morals of our forefathers were as strict and perhaps
purer and sounder than our own; and we have been

70

taught to look up to them as genuine models of the
honest, incorruptible character of Englishmen. They
were strangers indeed to delicacy of taste ; they be-
held the broad and unpruned delineations of nature,
and thought no harm; while we, on the most distant
approach to freedom of thought and expression, turn
away in disgust, and vehemently express our displea-
sure. Does this arise from the irritable shame of
guilt, or from the sensibility of innocence ? Perhaps not
wholly from either, but from a cautious apprehension
that the obduracy of vice may be brazened into impu-
dence by the perversion of a satire which is aimed to
expose it; and from a sense of the difficulty which un-
questionably exists, of preserving the purity of a rising
generation unsullied, in this luxurious and refined age,
when the allurements of vice are so various, and the
path of virtue is so beset with temptation. For the
evil affections of the mind, as well as for those of
the body, prevention is easier than cure ; and the same
feeling which prompts the father of a family to guard
his children from every immoral incitement, actuates
the censors of literature, and the audiences of our
theatres, to banish from the press and from the stage,
those productions which tend, however indirectly and
remotely, to cherish licentiousness. Human nature is
ever the same, but society is always progressive, and at

71

every stage of refinement the passions require stricter
control ; not because they are more violent, but because
the circumstances which excite them are multiplied.
Hence we might almost be tempted to envy the secure
and unsuspecting innocence of our ancestors, for in this
sense the maxim of the poet is strictly just;

Where ignorance is bliss

'Tis folly to be wise.

And if we trace back the progress of society to its
primitive state we shall rind, that the innocence of man-
kind is in an inverse ratio to their advancement in
knowledge. The inhabitants of Otaheite were com-
paratively virtuous, so long as the waves of the Pacific
preserved them from the contagion of European inter-
course ; and the pictures which have been drawn of
their simple and guileless manners, remind us of the
state of our first parents in Paradise before the fall: —
' And they were both naked, the man and the woman,
rind were not ashamed.'

72

THE GRAY COCK.

A stanza of this romantic little song has for
many years been thrust into the verses begin-
ning,

' Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother.'

Its richness and difference of rhyme soon
convince us that it belongs to better company.
Pinkerton has printed these spurious woi'ds
six and twenty years ago, in his Select Scottish
Ballads; and though he pronounced even
them, to constitute 'an excellent song of super-
lative beauty,' yet from that time to the pre-
sent no exertions have been made to recover
the original glowing verses now presented to
the reader. It appears that his copy was
popular in England at the time he published.
Tho air has a correspondent beauty with the

73

words : the composer of it is, I believe, un-
known. This copy was communicated by Mr.
Allan Cunningham. He had it from his father,
whose memory was richly fraught with old
songs, and notices regarding them. He used
to point out the inequalit}' of the song as it
stood in various collections, and repeat this as
the precious relique of the original. The auld
(hud-Wife, awakened by the cock, and hearing
the wooer steal away — the girl's archly-simple
reply, come deeply into the mysteries of Scottish
wooing. Their songs abound with traits of
this kind :

Wha palters sac late at our gyle window?

Mither, its the cauld sleet;
Come in yere wa's quo' the sleeky guid-wife,

An' warm thae frozen feet.

74

THE GRAY COCK.

i.
I'll clip, quo' she, yere lang gray wing,

An' pouk yere rosie kame,
If ye daur tak the gay morn-star

For the morning's ruddie learn ! m
But if ye craw na till the day,

I'll make yere bauk o' silk,
And ye shall pickle the red cherries,

And drink the reeking milk !
ii.
Flee up, flee up, my bonnic gray cock,

An' craw whan it is day;
An' I'll make ye a kame o' the beaten gowd,

An' yere wings o' the siller gray!
But fause, fause proved the bonnie gray cock,.

An hour owre soon crew he;
He clappit his wings owre the auld guid-wife,

And an angry wife raise she.

1,1 To learn, to blaze, to gleam : —

' And a' the land seemed in a learn. '

Barbour's Bruh.

75

in.
Wha's that, quo' she, at our door latch,

Is it some liminer loun ?
Na, raither, it is the pawky tod

That howls again' the moon.
What step is that by our ha' en',

Which treads sae light o' spauld ? "
O mither, it is the herd laddie,

Gaun by to look the fauld !

" Sar light o' spauld, so light of foot.

76

STARS, DINNA KEEK IN

i.
Stars, dinna keek in,
And see me \vi' Marie;
And O, thou bonnie, bonnie moon,
Don't in our window tarrie!
O yestreen ye scaured me,
O yestreen ye marred me,
Frae monie a kiss ye barred me,
Ye kecked sae in on Marie.
ii.
Marie's a winsome quean,
My dear Marie !

Weel she loes, she shaws ye loes,
The lad wha loes Marie;
But nae tell-tale moon loes she,
Nor love-prying star loes she ;
The session soon enough will see

Wha lies wi ' Marie.

# * *

77

GALLOWAY TAM

Is a song of several stanzas. In the Scots
Musical Museum there are only two verses of
it published. Johnson has either not known
the whole of it, or, as is usual with him, he has
cast the best parts adrift. The Editor has
recovered and united the two last humorous
verses to their fellows. ' O ignorance parts
gude com panic ! '

O Galloway Tain came here to woo,
I'd rather we'd gi 'en him the bawsand cow;
For our lass Bess may curse and ban
The wanton wit o' Galloway Tain!

O Galloway Tarn came here to shear,
I'd rather we'd gi'en him the gude gray marc;
He kiss'd the gudewife and dang the gudeinan.
And that's the tricks o' Gallovvav Tain'

78

Galloway Tarn rides far and near,
There's nane can graith wi' siccan gear;
The lowns ca' out, wha sing the Psalm,
' Room i' the stool p for Gallovva}r Tarn! '

The Hovvdiei lifts frae the Beuk her ee,
Says ' blessings light on his pawkie ee!'
An' she mixes maist i' the holie Psalm,
' O Davie r thou wert like Galloway Tarn ! '

p Of Repentance. 1 Howdie, the midwife.

r Davie, the Psalmist.

79

TAM BO.

Will ye fee wi' me, Tarn Bo, Tam Bo?
Will ye fee wi' me, my heart and my Jo?
And ye'se be at hamelike my tae ee,
If ye'll fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me.

Ye'se get merks three, Tam Bo, Tam Bo,
Ye'se get merks three, my heart and my Jo !
And is nae that a dainty bit fee,
To get frae a pitifu' widow like me?

Ye'se get bairns' meat, Tam Bo, Tam Bo,
Ye'se get bairns' meat, my heart and my Jo !
Saps o' cream, and gude beef-bree,
If ye'll fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me.

Ye'se get waled wark,Tam Bo, Tam Bo,
Ye'se get waled wark, my heart and my Jo!
Ye'se faugh our gudeman's weel-plowed lea,
If ye'll fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me.

80

And if ye do't weel, Tarn Bo, Tarn Bo,
And if ye do't weel, my heart and my Jo,
For every merk ye sail hae three ;
Will ye fee wi' a pitifu' widow like me?

' I canna lie my lane, my lane,

I canna lie my lane, my lane,

Tho' I brawlie can faugh yere weel plowed lea,

Or there's nane can do't i' the hale Kintrie.

Ye'se lie wi' me, Tarn Bo, Tam Bo,
Ye'se lie wi' me, my heart and my Jo,
Hae ! there's airle-pennies twa or three,
Come hame wi' a pitifu' widow like me.

The northwind's eauld, Tam Bo, Tam Bo,
The northwind's cauld, my heart and my Jo!
It freezed the drap in our Johnnie's bleer'd ee,
O kind was the news it blew to me!

The southwind's sweet, Tam Bo, Tam Bo,
The southwind's sweet, my heart and my Jo!
It wags the gowans on our <2:ude-man's bree,
And dries the tears frae my pitifu' ee.

81

WERE YE AT THE PIER O' LEITH?

Were ye at the Pier o' Leith?
Or came in by Bannochier

Crossed ye at the boat o' Craig ? —

Saw ye the lad wha courted me ?
Short hose an' belted plaidie,

Garters tyed below his knee;
() he was a bonnie lad,

The blythe lad wha courted me!

() weary la' the lang yellow broom,

Gaur'd me ,y;an^ kilted to the knee,
May the sleekie bird ne'er build a nest

That sung to see the hawk wi me!

# # # #

82
OUR GUID-WIFE'S AY IN THE RIGHT.

(FROM MRS. COPLAND.)
I.

Our guid-wife's ay in the right,

Ay in the right, ay in the right,
Our guid-wife's ay in the right,

And I am ay in the wrang, Jo !
Right or wrang she's ay in the right,

She's ay in the right, she's ay in the right:
Right or wrang she's ay in the right,

And I am ay in the wrang, Jo!
ii.
There's go wans grow at our kirk wa',

At our kirk wa', at our kirk wa',
Owre monie a dinsome Carlin law"

Fu' hlythe to win aboon, Jo!
Wad ance that winsome Carle Death,

But rowe her in his blaek mort-claith, "
I'd make a wadset o' an aith

To feast the parishen, Jo !

n Law, low.
0 Mort Claith, is a covering of black rclvet, spread over
the coflin at a funeral.

83

ORIGINAL OF BURNS'S CARLE OF
KELLY-BURN BRAES.

There whs an auld man was hauding his plow,
Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

By came the Devi), says, ' How do ye do?'
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

It's neither your ox, nor your ass that I crave,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!
But your auld scaulding wife, man, and her I
maun have,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

' Go take her, go take her,' the auld carle said,
Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

Ye'll no keep her lang, an' that I'm afraid,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

84

The Devil he mounted her on his back,
Hey ! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme !

An* avva like a pedlar he trudged wi' his pack,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

He carried her on till he came to hell's door,
Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme !

An' bade her gae in, for a bitch an' a whore,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

He placed her on his big arm chair,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

An' thousands o' Devils came roun' her to stare,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

But ay as they at the auld carlin played pouk,
Hey ! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme !

She gied them a bann, an' she lent them a clout,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

85

A reekit wee devil gloured ovvre the wa',
Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

Says, help ! master, help ! or she'll ruin us a',
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

The deil he came up wi' a good brunstane rung,
Hey ! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme !

An' out at the door the auld carlin he swung,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

He hynt up the carlin again on his back,
Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

•\n' awa fV blythely he trudged wi' his pack,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

He carried her owre an acre or two,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

Till he came to the auld man hauding his plow,
Vn' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

86

An' ay as the auld carle ranted and sang,
Hey ! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme !

* In troth my auld spunkie ye'll no keep her lang;' —
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

' Gude morrow,' most sadly, the auld carle said,
Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

' Yere bringing me back my auld wife I'm afraid;
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

'I tryedherin spunks, and incau'dronsl tryed her,
Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

' An' the wale o' my brunstane wadna hae fry'd her,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

c I stapped her in the neuk o' my den,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

' But the vera damn'd ran, when the carlin gaed ben,
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

87

' Sae here's a gude pose? for to keep her yourself
Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

' She's nae fit for heaven, an' she'll ruin a' hell/
An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in
prime.

This original and strongly relieved song was re-
touched by Burns. Yet there is reason to believe he
had not seen the whole of the verses which constitute
the present copy, as it contains many characteristic
traits, that his critical taste would have held sacred.

A truly ludicrous and witty vein of wedded strife
enlivens many fragments of Scottish song:

Souter Sawney had a wife,
Souter Sawney had a wife,
Souter Sawney had a wife,

They ca'd her Meg the Randie :

" Pose, or hoard of money , a purseful of coin. ' He ha.--
j <_!;iii<l |>osc,' is an old expression for riches. ' A pose o'
irewfl,' occur'- in an old Min<j,, which I do not at present
recollect.

88

She suppit the butter off Sawney's brose,
She suppit the butter off Sawney's brose,
And wadset baith his sark an' hose,
For burning sowps o' brandy.

She rampit butt, she rampit ben,
Wi' cock broo in a frything pan;
It dreeped down Sawney's meezled shin,

Hech ! Cuckold, did I scaud you! '
The don nor t bodie croon'd right lowne,
Whyle tears dreeped a' his black beard down,
' The Diel maun knuckle to yere tune,

Or hell it winna haud you ! '

The honest carle of ' Kelly hit rn Braes,' seems to
have possessed all the patience of Souter Sawney ; yet
the Souter, though he ' crooned right lowne before his
unmanageable shrew, would at times gratulate himself
in her absence, with a verse of

FAIRLY SHOT ON HER.

i.
O gin I were fairly shot on her,
O gin I were fairly shot on her,
Auld Satan wad lie neither side nor on top on her,
But wad cowre in his cleugh, and sing — ' fairly
shot on her.'

89

ii.

When I sing at the Beuk she will lilt like a starling,
' Johnnie come kiss me, my Joe and my darling ;'
O gin the grass wad grow green on the top on her,
I'd rin daft wi' joy were I fairly shot on her.

in.
Auld Clootie thous't had a han' i' the getting her,
Or she'd choked wi' the broo, whilk they took for

to christen her, .
The lugs o' a tinkler wad deave for to listen her,
O gin I were fairly shot on her.

Did not his respect for the fair dames of Nithsdale
and Galloway restrain the Editor, he could present
them with many more lamentable fragments of hen-
pecked ejaculation; but this sad remnant of the olden
time having now no modern parallel, it would be
deemed invidious and uncharitable in him, (conscious
of owing so much to these ladies) to visit the sins of
the mothers upon their daughters of the gentler gene-
ration.

90

THE ORIGINAL OF BURNS'S 'GUDE
ALE COMES,' &c.

O gude ale comes an' glide ale goes,
Gude ale gaurs me sell my hose;
Sell my hose and pawn my shoon,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

Gude ale keeps me bare and bizzy,
Gaurs me tipple till I be dizzy;
An' keep a soup till the afternoon —
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

Our guidwife coft a snip white coat,
Wi' monie a weel hained butter-groat,
But it's a wadset'1 i' the town —
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

^ A wadset — a pledge. To wad, or wed, is to lay in
pledge. Thus Burns —

' Here's that little wadset,
Butle's scrap o' truth}
Pawned in a gin shop,
Quenching holie drouth.'

91

I had sax owsen in a pleugh,
They drew a' weel enough ;
I selled them a' just ane by ane,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

I keepit sax groats tor tvva lang weeks,
Till they maist brunt my hoddin-breeks;
But I slokened the limmers ane by ane,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

Gude ale's the medicine aft spaed1 of,
The very stuff that life is made of;
Drapt in a receipt frae the moon,
To keep men's sinking hearts aboon

Sometimes it means to bet.

Wad ance that wynsome Carle Death
But rowl her in his black mort-claith;

I'd make a wadset o' an aith,
To feast the narishen, Jo.'

Old Sonc;, p. 8'
' Foretold.

92

THERE'S NANE O' THEM A' LIKE
MY BONNIE LASSIE.

(galloway.)

This old song cost much pains in collecting.
The first, second, third, . and fifth verses are
from the young girl who recited ' Derwent-
water.' The fourth verse, and part of the sixth,
are from Mrs. Copland; the last verses are re-
stored from those ewe-bughting and trysting
singings once so common in Nithsdale and Gal-
loway.

There were mixed with it several verses of
middling merit. It is here presented to public
notice, for the first time, in a perfect form.

Nithsdale and the skirts of Galloway equally
claim this song; it is known in both, and is
much admired in the rude and unwinnowed
way in which it is usually sung.

93

I'll part wi' a' ere I part wi' my lassie,

I'll part wi' a' ere I part wi' my lassie ;

The ladies o' Nithsdale are proud, high, an' saucy,

But there's nane o' them a' like my bonnie lassie.

Her twa rosy lips are like kame-drappit hinney,
Her twa laughing een amang lads are uncanny;
Her links o' black hair owre her shouthers fa'

bonnie,
An'where's there a maiden like my bonnie Jeanie!

White is the nan' o' my ain bonnie lassie,
Leal is her heart, fu' o' kindness my lassie;
Yestreen i' my arms how she drappit, fu' gawcie,
' I'll ay be ye're ain,' quo' my bonnie young lassie.

She has nae glide mailens to baud her ay easy,
Nor pearlins nor gowd to make her look gawcie;
She has nae braw claes for to shine i' the causie,
But there's nane o' them a' like my bonnie lassie.

My friends they are proud, an' my mither is saucy,
My auld auntie tauks ay the crown o' the causie;

94

But here's my Jean's health i' the siller-lipped-

tassie !
I'll part wi' them a' e'er I part wi' my lassie.

Frae the cot to the faulding I've followed my lassie,
To kirk and to market I gang wi' my lassie;
Up the Warlock glen, down the boglie Causie,
An' thro' a' the warld I'd follow my lassie.

Fu' rich is thy heart in leal kindness, my lassie,
Tho' hamely thy claithing,yet aught sets my lassie >
Thou art a new pearl in gowd I will case ye,
An' next to my heart, O! for ever I will place ye.

I'll part wi' a' e'er I part wi' my lassie,

I'll part wi' a' e'er I part wi' my lassie;

I'll tauk wi' my auntie the crown o' the Causie,

An' shaw me the lad wha will hae sic a lassie!

95

MY KIMMER AND I.

This song seems to be a slip, or scion from
* Todlen Hame.' It is but modern.

Whan Kimmer and I Mere groom and bride,
We had tvva pint stoups at our bed-side;
Sax times f'u' and sax times dry,
An raise for drouth — my Kimmer and I.

My Kimmer and { gade to the fair,
\VT twal pun' Scots in sarking to ware;
lint we drank the glide brown hawkie dry,
An' sarkless hame came Kimmer an' 1.

My Kimmer and L gade to the town,
For wedding-breeks an' a wedding gown ;
Hut the sleeky auld priest he wat our eye
In sackcloth gowns —my Kimmer an' 1.

96

My Kimmer and I maun tak the Beuk,
Wi' a twal pint stoup in our peat neuk ;
Ere the psalm be done, the dish is dry,
An' drouthelie pray my Kimmer an' I.

My Kimmer and I are scant o' claes,
Wi' soups o' drink and soups o' brose ,
But late we rise and soon gae lie,
And cantilie live — my Kimmer and I.

My Kimmer is auld, my Kimmer is bent,
And I'm gaun louting owre a kent;^
The well o' life is dribbling dry,
An' drouthie, drouthie's Kimmer an' I.

1 To lout owre a kent, to stoop, to bend double with
age, supported by a long staff'.

97

VARIATIONS OF 'TIBBIE FOWLER.'

In the Trystes of Nithsdale there are many
variations of this curious song. Some of them
have been long forgotten. Those here recovered
are given from the various recitations which
the Editor has picked up, from a diligent
search, among the old people of Nithsdale.
They exhibit a fine proof of the taste and abili-
ties of the peasantry.

The brankit lairds o' Gallowa,
The hodden breeks o' Annan Water,
The bonnet-, blue of fair Nithsdale,
Are yonl the Hallan wooing at her,
u

9S

Tweed-shaw's tarry neives are here,

Braksha' gabs frae Moffat Water,

An' half the thieves o' Annandale

Are come to steal her gear, and daute her.

I mind her weel in plaiden gown,
Afore she got her uncle's coffer;
The Gleds might pyked her at the dyke,
Before the lads wad shored them off her.

Now she's got a bawsent Cowte,
Grai thing sewed wi' thread o' siller;
Silken sonks to haud her doup,
And half the Kintra's trystin 'till her.

Sour plumbs are gude wi' sugar baked —
Slaes are sweet wi' kames o' hinnic;
The bowltest carlin i' the land,
Gowd can make her straught and bonnie.

I wadna gie twa rosie lips,
Wi' breath like mixed milk and honey;
Which i' the gloamin' dew I kissed,
For Tibbie wi' a mine o' monie.

99

I wadna gie the haffet locks,
Wi' blobs o' dew sae richly drapping;
Which lay yestreen upon my breast,
For Tibbie wi' her ladie happing. q

i TIBBIE FOWLER.

(the old words.)

Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,

There's o'er niony wooin at her,
Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,

There's o'er rnony wooin at her,
Wooin at her, pu'in at her,

Courtin at her, carina get her,
Filthy elf, its for her pelf,

That a the lads are wooin at her.

Ten cam east, and ten cam west,
Ten cam rowin o'er the water;

Twa cam down the lang-dvke side,
There's twa and thirty wooin .it her.
JVooin at her, cSY.

Fhere's seven but, and •>e\en ben,

Seven in the pantry wi' her;
Twenty head about the door,

I here's ane and forty wooin at her.
Wooin at her, isfc.

100

To shew how these Trystes would alter the original
cast of a song, we will give some stray verses picked
up while in search of others. It was customary for
the young men of neighbouring parishes to come to
the public Trystes, and sing. Sometimes feuds of
bloody termination subsisted between parishes, which
were mutually kindled at these mixed meetings, where

She's got pendles in her lugs,

Cockle shells wad set her better :
High-heel'd shoon, and siller tags,

And a' the lads are wooin at her.
Wooin at her, (Sfc.

Be a lassie e'er sae black,

An' she hae the name o' siller,
Set her upo' Tintock * tap,

The wind will blaw a man 'till her.
Wooin at her, &c.

Be a lassie e'er sae fair,

An' she want the pennie siller,
A flic may fell her in the air,

Before a man be even till her.
Wooin at her, (Sfc.

* Tintock, a stupendous hill near the town of Biggar.

101

strokes of native satire, nicknames of satirical allusion,
and reproach of ancestry and character, would mingle
in the conversation, and in song. As a specimen,
the following verses may be given, grafted on Tibbie
Fowler. Two lads of Dunscore parish, coming to a
KirkmahoeTryste had this witty verse interpolated in
its proper place —

' The Dunscore ' Salt Lairds stilt the Nith,
And muddie a' our supper water;
The gray-beard solemn-leaging lowns
Thravv by the beuk o' God to dawte her.
The birds hae a' forhoodi their nests,
The t routs hae ta'en the Cairn and Annan,
For hoddin breeks and stilting shanks,
Between the sun- set and the dawing.'

These lines were instantly retorted by this blithsome
effort of local parish pleasantry,

' Kirkmahoe louped on her sonks,
WT new creeshed shoon and weel darned hosen;
And cry'd to maw an acre kail,
And hing the pan wi' water brose on;
And wha will lend us brydal gear,
Sheep amang the Kale to simmer,

'i Forhood, forsaken.

102

Gullies for to sheer their cloots,
Swats to foam aboon the timmer.'

Dunscore sent her spauls o' sheep,

Lent her owre our big brose ladle ;

Pewter plates and hansel gear,

To mense her wi' at Tibbie's brydal.

Ye've pyked the banes o' yere leap-year's cow,

Yere aught day's kale's a' finished fairly ;

Yere big brose pot has nae played brown

Sin' the Reaver Rade o' gude Prince Charlie.

An old Nithsdale farmer possessed a fair portion of
that satiric humour which belongs to the song of Tilbie
Fowler. Having two daughters • mair black than
bonnie,' he would hint at their uncomeliness — ' My
lasses wad hae mensed me had I lived among the
black, but comelie daughters of Jerusalem, ' he would
say ; — ' but I'll do wi' them as the Gudeman o' Roan-
shaw did wi' his cowtes — He put siller graithing on
them, and hung bobbins o' gowd at their manes, and
shawed them at the market, saying — ' Some will gie a
bode for ye, for the sonks and bridle !'

103

CANNIE WF YOUR BLINKIN' BESSIE.

Tune ' Willie was a wanton wag.'

This very modern song seems to have been
erected by some poor bard to the memory of
the many rubs and jeers he had experienced
on his first outset among the young Witches of
Galloway.

Love has set my saul on fire,
Bessie, ye hae blavvn the bleeze;

A' the neebors round conspire
Night an' day my life to teaze.

Cannie wi' your blinkin', Bessie,
Beet nae mair the dools 1 dree;

Hoolie, hoolie, bonnie lassie,
\V i' the glamour u' your ee.

104

Dreigh and doure I hae been yokit,
Since our maiden tryste yestreen,

Whan my heart I first unlockit
On the velvet sward sae green.

Lampin Tibbie Deemster saw us

Tak a kindly kiss or twa;
Syne awa she bang'd to blaw us,

Mumlin what she heard an' saw.

Slaveriri Jock glowr'd owre the hallan,
Kindly speir'd for Wooster Tarn;

( Swith!' quo' he, ' ye beardless Callan,
Tak your beuk, and learn your Psalm.

Scozvderdowp came to our dwallin,
And wi' serious smudgin' leuk.

Spier'd at Aunty, gin the Callan
Wanted either cleps or crook.

'Deed, quo' Kate, our Clachan howdie^
Rousty eild, taks ill wi' lear,

1 The Clachan Howdie, the village midwife.

105

Bessie's sleek as ony mowdie,
They wha cuddle young learn fair. '

Fid gin Davie clew his haffit,

Hotchin thrang o' crikes an' flaes;

' Tain,' quo' he, ' their gibes we'll laugli at,
Whan I mak the bairns's claes.'

Warst of a,' Rob Birse, the Souter,

Sent it ringin' thro' the town,
How he'd fairly poutch'd the multre

()' the weans's bridal shoon.

Blyihe hae L been wi' my Bessie,

Blyther days I never saw;
Gaun to woo my bonnie lassie,

Through the glens o' Gallowa'!

106

THE BRIDAL SARK, AND THE BRIDE-
GROOM DARG.

(nithsdale.)

There is a sort of nursery song in the Pepy-
sian Collection which runs thus, —

The Elphin Knight sits on a hill,

Ba, ba, ba, li Hie ba;
He blows his horn both loud and shill,

The wind hath blown my plaid awa.

This would seem to be the original of these
twin songs the ' Bridal Sark,' and ' The Bride-
groom Dan*.' There is a common Scotch
song called ' Captain Wedderburne's Court-
ship,' much in the same singular and original
way. The lady proposes enigmas, which the
captain's versatile gallantry soon finds means
to solve or to evade.

In these twin songs there is a curious and

107

pleasing collection of Scotch phrases and pro-
verbs, sarcastically chosen and skilfully inter-
spersed to suit the complexion of the songs.
This traditionary wisdom has been substituted
by some judicious bard for ' the wind hath
blown my plaid awa,' of the old ballad. Speci-
mens of these national phrases might be given
from almost every song and ballad high in
public favour. They are full of instruction,
conveyed in language often highly figurative
and poetical. Aware of their sterling value,
Burns has, with his accustomed delicacy of se-
lection, transplanted many of the best and most
beautiful into his fields of native poesy, where
they will flourish for ever. Those of his songs
in particular, which pourtray character, are
rich in this proverb lore; which, heightening
their strain of original poetry, endears them to
every Scotchman's heart. So estimable indeed
do these adages and phrases appear in Scotland,
that there; is a master proverb to express their
value : —

' I'll make proverbs — you make laws.'

108

THE BRIDAL SARK.

Ye may pu' the red gowan that blossoms at Yule,
(Blaw, blavv, blaw, soft the wind blaw,)

And the gowden-bobb'd lilie that flowers o'er the
pool,
(And the wind it has blawn my plaid awa!)

But a bonnie lass mauna be pu'd till she's ripe,
(Saft, saft, saft, does the simmer-wind blaw,)

Or she'll melt awa like the snaw frae the dyke,
(And the ripe lilie-tap i' the sun will fa ! )

Gae hame to yere mither, my sonsie young thing,
(The red, red rose is dawning and a';)

Ye'll aulder be, gin the leap year spring,

(O sweet on the gowan-tap the dew-blobs fa !)

Yere but a young bird wi' the downe i' the breast^
(The purple flower hings on yon abbey wa',)

O'er young to hap i' the twigs roun' the nest,
(An' sweet frae its tap does the dew-blobs fa ! )

109

Ye may kame down thae gowd-links thae lang
simmers three,

(The new paired birds sing blythe i' the shaw,\
And nae yet be fit a bride for to be,

(O blythe is the sun for he blinks on us a'!)

Thae hands are nae seemlie my sheets for to sew,
( Whan the red gowans at Yule maun blaw,)

But to wash the burn lilie amang the May-dew,
(The kirk-yard's ready wi' corses to saw.)

I hae a web of satin at hame,

(The white haw-bloom drops hinnie an' a';)
Ye maun make me a sark o't a' gowd o' the hem,

(There's hinney i' the wildest weed that can
blaw.)

Ye maun shape it butr sheers, ye maun sew it but
silk,

(There's luve i' the heart tho* the lips say na!)
Ye maun wash it but weet, like a lilie in milk,

(The rose i' the country ay bonniest does blaw.)

r Bui, without.

110

Ye maun dry't i' the tap o' the new blossom'd
thorn,
(The gray swallow bigs i' the cot-house wa';)
That never had leaves on't since man was born,
(O I'll pu' the yellow cowslip sac powder'd an'
braw.)

The wind mauna' touch't, the sun mauna see't,
(The broom waves yellow whan the simmer winds
blaw ;)
The dew mauna drop on't, whan laid out tostreek,
(At the heart o' the leal love makes the soonest
ca'.)

Ye maun rufflet i' the bosom wi' witeh-gowan

flower, r

(The wind wags the rose-tap on our castle wa';)

Ye maun starch't wi' the powther of a pink i' the

bower,

(O the tear-drapso' luve are sweet whan they fa'.)

r Witch-gowan flowers are large yellow gowans, with a
stalk filled with pernicious sap, resembling milk, which
when anointed on the eyes is believed to cause instant
blindness. This pernicious juice is called by the peasantrv
'Witches' milk.'

Ill

Ye maun sleeve-button't wi' twa adder-beads,8
(O Love at my bower-window saftly did ca' ;)

Wi' unchristened fingers maun plait down tbe
breeds, l
(O dinna leave me, lad, till our twa cocks craw.)

s JVi' twa adder beads. Adder beads are very rarely
found. According to popular belief, they are of a beautiful
dark grey colour, about two inches in diameter, with a hole
in the centre. They are the workmanship of the adders,
which assemble to the amount of some hundreds in a certain
time of summer, to cast off their sloughs and renew their
age. They entwist and writhe themselves among each
other until they throw off their last year's sloughs, half melted
by their exertions. These are all collected and plastered
over with frothy saliva, and again wrought to and fro till
they are condensed and shaped into an adder bead. Their
hissing and noise are frequently heard by the shepherds,
when about their painful act of renovation, and woe to those
that approach them. The bead is often left, and it is
treasured up by the shepherds as a talisman of good luck.
' To make a head,' is a Scottish phrase, applied when a
rinp; of people is formed on any hurried and important
business.

1 IV i' unchristened fingers maun plait down the heeds.
This is an allusion to the Scottish Brownie, whose unbap-
tised lingers loved to plait and tit on the ladies' frills. See
i he Appendix.

112

Ye maun fauld it and lock it i' the primrose's cup,
,(F the howe-ho wins o' Nithu my love lives an' a',)

Ye maun row't i' the rose-leaf sealed wi' a dew-
drop,
(O the sweet kintra lassie is kindliest of a'.)

And when ye hae finished this bonnie bride-wark,
(O the lilie wad be bonnie to bloom i' the snaw !)

I'll be yere bly the bridegroom and hansel the sark,
(O the lav'rocks sing loud when the hawk's far
awa.)

u 7* the howe-howms o' Nith my love lives an' a\ This
line establishes by local testimony a Nithsdale claim to this
and the following song. The howe-howms of Nith is a ro-
mantic vale, of near ten miles diameter, at the bottom of
which stands Dumfries. Cottages, farm-houses, ruined
remains of architectural greatness, with gentlemens' seats,
beautifully embosomed in plantations, natural and culti-
vated, with the richness of the harvest fields, form the noblest
scene perhaps in the Lowlands of Scotland.

113
THE BRIDEGROOM DARG."

(N1THSDALE.)

The fairest roses fade, which nane ever pu',
(Blaw, blaw, blaw, saft the wind blaw,)

Though the vellow hinnie hings frae their red
rosy inou',
(Tlie wind fa's saft whare the primroses blaw.)

The lealest maidens stand like a rose i' the dew,
(The wild cushat-doo has nestlings twa,)

And silly man gangs by, nor heeds for to pu',
(The saft thistle-tap lines thegowdspink's ha'.)

Ye may stand up i' the auld bane dyke, *

(There's a worm i' the prettiest rose that can

I) law)

" Darg, Day's Work.
x ' Ye may stand up i' the auld banc dyke. ' This phrase
belongs to a game now much neglected among the Lowland
peasantry, called the JVadds. Young men and women ar-

I

114

And the corbies will pyke ye afore I be ripe,
(The young birds sing owre near the hawk's ha'.)

ranged themselves on each side of the hearth fire, and alter-
nately bestowed husbands and wives on each other. It
begins thus :

' O its hame, an' its hame, an' its hame, hame, hame,
I think this night I maun gae hame. '

The other party cries :

' Ye had better lycht an' byde a' night,
An' I'll choose you a bonnie ane. '

' O wha'll ye chuse an' I wi' ye byde?'

' I'll gie ye (here name the person) to lie by yere side.'

If the partner please :

'I'll set her up on the bonnie pear tree,
It's straught an' tall, an' sae is she,
I wad wauke a' night her hive to be. '

But if the person proposed be rejected:

' I'll set her up i' the bank dyke,
She'll be rotten ere I be ripe,
The Corbies her auld banes wadna pyke.'

This if she be old — If she be young and rejected :
• I'll set her up on the high crab-tree,
Its sowre and dowre, an' sae is she;
She may gang to the moots unkist by me.'

115

I'll lay ye down 'mang the gowans to streek,
(!' the deer's den the dog has whalpit an' a')

And turn ye i' the sun, into love it may ye beek;
(O the ice i' the beard o' the thistle will thaw.)

I'll wash ye wi' May-dew, i' the neck and the cheek,
(The bairn maun be washen by the kimmers
an a',)
They were wat by the priest i' the mirk Monday y
week,
(The brocket fac'd cat dights her mou wi' her
paw.)

This refusal must be atoned for by a wadd, or forfeit. A
piece of monev, a knife, or any little thing which the owner
prizes, and will redeem. His penance of redemption is fre-
quently to kiss those very lips which he had rejected, or any
object which is expected to be disagreeable to him. The
performance of this looses his wadd. This game, I un-
derstand, was frequently used to beguile a long winter eve-
ning in the cottages of rustics.

V Mirk Monday was a day of almost total darkness, and
is frequently counted from as an era. Windy Saturday is
another of those traditional eras. They are app'ied as sar-
castic reflections on old bachelors or old maids. Thus
Burns —

U6

I was owre the iugs in luve wi' yere psalm-singing
look,
(There's a blaek prent bible i' the reek o' the
ha',)
Ye're the half-flayed saint i' the martyrs' book !
(It's my auld aunt's bolster atween the sheets
sma'.)

I was deep in love, though nae owre far gane,
(O love's like the dew, it heeds nae where to fa' — )

Wi' death an' his sand-glass on the martyrs'2 stane
(O haffet locks look weel whan they're bleach'd
like the snaw.)

' Auld uncle John wha wedlock's joys,
Since Mars year * did desire ;
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice,
He heaved them on the fire.'

1 Wi' death an his sand-glass on the martyrs' stane.
The martyrs, as itiswell known, are those unfortunate people
who perished in the deadly struggle of the church of Scot-
land with English prelacy. Their graves were marked out
by their countrymen with hewn stones, ( called the martyrs'
-tanes,) rudely sculptured, and strewn with rhymes of scrip-
* Mar s year, 1715.

117

And a' for the Sark ye hae gien me to sew,
(My bower is a' wormwood wi' gowd-bolts twa,)

I hae a darg for a bridegroom to do —

(Wi' a bed o' sweet nettles for to haud lovers
twa.)

I hae sax rigs of braid pleugh land,

(My bride-hood's ready wi' mantle an' a',)

Fenced 'tween the salt seas and the sand,
(Wi' sax leal maidens a' waiting my ca'.)

Ye maun plow't a' wi' a braid elf-arrow, a
(Far maun ye gang ere ye come to my ha')

Ye maun rake out the weeds wi' a sjowd-teethed
harrow,
(A hill o' heckle teeth for to climb owre an' a'.)

Ye maun saw't a' wi' ae pyle o' corn,
(Deil get the clungest quo the haggis to claw!)

tural denunciation against their persecutors. The ground
where they are interred is consecrated with devotional pil-
grimage.
- See the history of the fairies, Appendix (!•'.

118

That never had chafT on't since man was born,
(The birds pair kindliest whan they 're nestlings
an' a'.)

To wear aff the birds, be a scaur-craw yoursel,
(The gled pykes the banes o' the auld hoodie
craw.)
And there's never a corbie daur play pouk at yere
tail,
(The flowers spring up whan the spring winds
blaw.)

Ye maun weet it wi' dew that never has fa'n,
(There's a sour crab grows at our barn wa',)

Ye maun cool't a' wi' wind that never has blawn,
(And the birds winna big in't nor sing in't ava.)

It mauna grow wi' its tap to the sun,

(O love pairs low like biythe birds twa;)
But maun streek up and ripen wi' the light o' the
moon,
(Ye may catch a young lass like a bird i' the
snaw.)

11.9

Ye maun shear't a* wi' a young tup's horn,

(I winna grip wi' chaff like a bird i' the snaw,)
That never had woo on't since man was born,
(Ye maun catch me wi' corn if ye catch me at a'.)

Ye maun thresh't out on yon castle tap,
(The Jintic chittles sad i' the high tower wa',)

And nae for yere life let ae pickle drap;

(The wee-bird's blythe whan the winter's awa.)

Ye maun sift it a' wi' a bottomless sieve,

(The spring-gowan's cauld wi' it's happin of
snaw,)
Ye maun sack it up, i' the thumb o' a glove,
(But it keeks lovely out whan the sun 'gins to
thaw.)

Ye maun kill-dry 't wi' ice, ye maun grun't but a
q ii aim, b
(Will ye bigme a bovvcrique in simmer of snaw;)

b )C maun kill-drift wi ice, ye maun gruiit but a quairn :
little hand mills which arc yet to he found in sonic old
peonies' houses for grinding com. They were common be-
fore water-nulls became so general. These stones are thin
and Hat, made of field frce-utoue, and arc; called quairns.

120

Ye maun barrel't i the ring of an unchristen'd
bairn,
(The westlin star's comelie whan the sun sinks
awa.)

Ye maun make Brydal brose o't but water or

lowe,

(Twa todlin burns 'mang the birk banks fa')

Ye maun borrow smid-meal frae the fairie at the

Knowe,

(I hae twa mills whilk the todlin burns ca'.)

Ye maun dish't a' out in a braid cockle-shell,
(Bride's maids are mim at a supper an' a',)

For my sax bride-maidens to sup at a meal,
(The gled lo'es gore, and the cat lo'es a'.)

Besides these there were troughs found at every hamlet for
the purpose of knocking their bear in, before barley mills
were erected. Small kilns, with ribs of wood, covered with
oat straw, over which was spread the corn, were the joint
and common property of a few neighbours. Great care was
taken while beefing the kiln lest they should fire the straw.
Thus the unfortunate Gudeman of Auchtermuchty,
' Then he bore kendling to the kill,
But scho start all up in a lowe. '

121

And whan ye hae finish'd this bridegroom Darg,
(My white-sheeted bed is siller at the wa')

Come like a blythe wooster an' hansel yere Sark,
(An' there's armfu's o' luve atween the sheets
srna'.)

Not many of these songs appear to be very old ;
some of them perhaps not above forty or fifty years.
It may be deemed proper to explain in what way they
have passed upon the breath of tradition. It is to the
country-meetings of men and women, young men and
maidens, that we owe their preservation, and often
their rise. The first kind of meeting that shall be no-
ticed is the Song Trystes. These were agreements
of probably twenty or thirty lads and lasses to meet at
an appointed house, (either a farmer's or a respectable
cottar's,) for song-singing and merriment. There were
also wool-combing and spinning Trystes, which,
though for the express purpose of friendly assistance,
always ended and were mixed with singing songs and
reciting ballads. These trystcd themselves through
part of a parish, until all the wool was carded and
spun. Then were dancing Trystes, which were twin
iisters to those of song: the lads would carry wine and

122

whiskey with sweetmeats, to refresh their partners in
the intervals of dancing. They then selected some of
the most melting songs ; such as were touched keenly
with the finger of love: — these were sung by the
young women ; and their partners joined in the ten-
derest parts, which suited their own situations and
feelings.

The * Lord's Marie ' had its rise from one of these
meetings, and it is a fine example of unadorned poesy,
and of rustic taste. Many of the songs, however, were
' higher-kilted' than is now meet for a modest ear.
Old Glenae, a Nithsdale song, mentioned by Burns, in
his ' Remarks on Scottish song,' belongs to weddings
and to dancing Trystes. It was sung in the character
of an old man, worn down with age, and abounds
with local humour, but it is too gross for insertion. It
begins —

' Silly poor auld Glenae,
What ails the kirk at thee ? '

Beside all these, there were Halloween meetings,
which, though dedicated solely to spells and charms,
and casting cantraips, were intermingled with song-
singing and ballad-reciting.

123

To them we may justly place some of the most
exquisite productions of the rural muse of Caledonia.
Buhns speaks of these meetings and their purposes: —

' On fasten een we had a rockin c
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ;
And there was muckle fun an' jokin,

Ye need na doubt ;
At length we had a hearty yokin
At sang about.'

Epistle to J. Lapraik.

' ' There is another custom here, commonly known in
the language of the country by the name of rocking; that
is, when neighbours visit one another in pairs, or three or
more in company, during the moonlight of winter or
spring, and spend the evening alternately in one another's
houses. It is here noticed, because the custom seems to
have arisen when spinning on the rock or distaff was in
use, which therefore was carried along with the visitant to
a neighbour's house. The custom still prevails, though the
rock is laid aside; and when one neighbour says to another,
in the words of former clays, 'I am coining over with my
rock,' he means no more than to tell him that he intends
to spend an evening with him.' See the account of the
Parish of Muirkirk, Statist. Ace. VII. ()I2, 013.

124

Eager to outshine his fellow peasants each selected
the finest song for pathos and humour,, which was either
printed or recited. They laid hold of their own emo-
tions of heart and dressed them up in rhyme. Their
own adventures, or particular state of feeling and affec-
tion, furnished ample scope for poetic display. The
taste of their sweethearts was the critical tribunal to
which they appealed, where love and nature were
judges, and affixed their seal of approbation. They
knew no higher court of appeal, nor dreaded passing
below the saws and harrows-of-iron of classic criticism.

To these meetings we may assign the many varia-
tions and additions which are found in the old songs,
and of which, in the present collection, there are a few
pointed out, and specimens preserved.

SONGS

OF

HE MTHSDALE AND GALLOWAY
PEASANTRY.

CLASS III. JACOBITICAL.

(1715, 1745.)

127

JACOBITE SONGS, 1715.

DERWENTWATER,

(a fragment.)

James Radcliff, Earl of Derwentwater, com-
manded part of the rebel forces in the rebel-
lion of 171-3. After an ill-concerted irruption
he was taken prisoner at Preston, in Lanca-
shire. He is reported to have been a beautiful
and noble-looking man. Smollet observes that
' Derwentwater was an amiable youth — brave,
open, generous, hospitable and humane. His
fate drew tears from the spectators, and was a
great misfortune to the country in which he
lived. He gave bread to multitudes of people
whom he employed on his estate; — the poor,
the widow, and the orphan, rejoiced in his

128

bounty.' (Hisr. of" Eng. Vol. X. p. 200.) This
is an amiable character, and though smirched
with the foulness of rebellion, smells sweetly of
heaven. The Editor cannot find any tradition
on which this ballad is founded; it is taken
from the recitation of a young girl, in the
parish of Kirk-bean, in Galloway. He has
searched for it carefully through all the collec-
tions he could meet with, but it is not to be
found. There are many local songs which,
perhaps, never passed the bounds of a few
parishes. Revived by casual recitation among
the Peasantry, they rarely rise into further
notice. In the vulgar mind we frequently ob-
serve the strongly marked rudiments of critical
judgment. Thus the Peasantry retain those
noble touches of nature which are scattered
among their songs and ballads, while the indif-
ferent verses which encompass them, like dross
from the pure ore, are rejected and forgotten.
Hence the many gaps in the Scottish ballads,
and often single verses of sterling merit where
no further traces can be discovered.

129

DERWENTWATER.

(a fragment.)

O Derwentwater's a bonnie Lord,

Fu' yellow is his hair,
And glenting is his hawking ee,

VVi' kind love dwalling there.

Yestreen lie came to our lord's yett,
An' loud, loud eou'd he ea',b

' Rise up, rise up, for gude King James,
An' buckle, and come awa.'

Our ladie held by her gude lord,
Wi' wcel luve-loeked hands;

lint when young Derwent water came,
She loosed the snawy bands.

Aw when young Derwentwater kneel'd,
'My gentle fair ladie,'

'■ Could he id , a Scotticism.
K.

130

The tears gave way to the glow o' love,
In our gude ladie's ee.

' I will think me on this honnie ring,

And on this snawy hand,
When on the helmy ridge o' weirc

Comes down my burly brand.

' And I will think on thae links o' gowd,

Which ring thy bonnie blue een,
When I wipe awa the gore o' weir,

An' owre my braid sword lean.

O never a word our ladie spake,

As he press'd her snawy hand,
An' never a word our ladie spake,

As her jimpy waist he spann'd;
But ' O ! my Derwentwater,' she sigh'd,

When his glowing lips she fand.

He has drapp'd frae his hand the tassel o' gowd,
Which knots his gude weir glove;

c Weir, war.

131

An' he has drappcd a spark frae his een,
Which gars our ladie love.

' Come down, come down,' our gude lord says,

Come down my fair ladie, —
O dinna, young lord Derwent stop,

The morning sun is hie.' —

And high, high raise the morning sun,

Wi' front o' ruddie blude,
' Thy harlot front frae thy white curtain,

Betokens naething gude.'

Our ladie look'd frae the turret-top,

As lang as she could see;
And every sigli for her gude lord,

For Derwent there were three.

# # #

152

LAMENT FOR THE LORD MAXWELL.

This potent and honourable name is eminent
tor its heroic attachment to fallen royalty.

The Maxwells distinguished themselves by
desperate feats of valour in the cause of the
lovely and unfortunate Mary. At the fatal
field of Langside they composed part of those
gallant spearmen who, unseconded by their
flinching countrymen, bore the awful shock of
encounter from the furious and veteran phalanx
of the Regent. When all was irrecoverably
lost, they threw themselves around their be-
loved Queen, and accomplished the memorable
retreat to Dundrennan Abbey, in Galloway.

The Maxwells opposed her rash and mis-
nuided resolve of trusting her sister Elizabeth.
Not daring to confide in the hope of the return-
ing loyalty and regard of her countrymen, she
threw herself in the arms of England, a royal
and lovely supplicant, and alas! a victim. The

133

valour of the Maxwells was again awakened in
the cause of her martyred grandson. When
the royal standard was raised, Charles numbered
among the remains of unshaken loyalty, the
Maxwells of Nithsdale. Charles's letter, re-
questing the aid of the Nithsdale veterans, is
preserved inTerreaglc's House, the seat of Con-
stable Maxwell, Esq.

Good or bad report could not subdue deter-
mined loyalty: the sword was again drawn for
exiled royalty beneath the standard of Mar —
and the punishment due to the movers of such
a premature and ill-conducted effort fell upon
those who, contrary to their better judgments,
upheld the sinking cause even in the front of
ruin. The Karl of Nithsdale was taken prisoner
at Preston, hi Lancashire — tried and sentenced
to decapitation; — but bv the extraordinary
ability and admirable dexterity of his Countess
be escaped out of the Tower on the evening
before his sentence was to be executed, and
died ;it Rome Anno I 7-14- (1

'' Ad account of this escape will he found in the Appen-
dix.

134

LAMENT FOR THE LORD MAXWELL.

Make mane, my ain Nithsdale, thy leaf's i' the fa',
The lealest o' thy bairns are a' drapping awa;
The rose i' thy bonnet whilk flourished ay sae braw,
Is laigh wi' the mools since Lord Maxwell's awa.

O wae be 'mang ye Southron/ ye traitor lowns a',
Ye haud him ay down wha's back's at the wa',
I' the eerie field o' Preston yere swords ye wadna

draw,
O he lies i' cauld iron wha wad swappit ye a'.

O wae be to the hand whilk drew nae the glaive,
And cowed nae the rose frae the capo' the brave,
To hae thri'en 'mang the Southron as Scotsmen

ay thrave,
Or ta'en a bluidy niev'ou o' fame to the grave.

d Southron, an old name for the English.

135

The glaive for my countrie I doughtna then wauld,
Or I'd cocked up my bonnet vvi' the best o' the

bauld,
The crousest sud been cowpit owre i' deaths gory

fauld,
Or the leal heart o' some i' the swaird sud been

cauld.

Fu' aughty simmer shoots o' the forest hae I seen,
To the saddle laps in blude i' the battle hae I

been ;
But I never kend o' dule till I kend it yestreen,
O that I were laid vvhare the sods are growing

green !

T tint half my sel' whan my gude Lord I did tine,
A heart half sae brave a brade belt will never bin',
Nor the grassy sods e'er cover a bosom sae kin',
He's a drap o' dearest blude in this auld heart o>
mine.

() merry was the lilting aniang our ladies a',
They danced i' the parlour and sang i' the hu'.

m

1 O Charlie he's come owre an' he'll put the

Whigs awa,'
But they canna dight their tears now sae fast do

they fa' !

Our ladie dow do nought now but wipe ay her

een,
Her heart's like to loup the gowd lace o' her gown,
She has busked on her gay deeding an's aft* for

Lon'on town,
An' has wi' her a' the hearts o' the countrie roun'.

By the bud o' the leaf — by the rising o' the flower,
'Side the sang o' the birds whare some burn

tottles owre,
I'll wander awa there an' big a wee bit bower,
For to keep my gray head frae the drap o' the

shower.

An' ay I'll sit an' mane till my blude stops wi'

eild,
For Nithsdale's bonnie lord, wha was bauldest o'

the bauld,

137

O that I were wi' him in death's gory fauld,
O had I but the iron on, whilk hauds him sae
cauld !

The feelings of his peasantry on hearing of his escape,
though roughly Scottish, are worthy of record

THE LUSTY CARLIN.

• What news to mc, Carlin?
What news to me?'

' Enough o' news,' quo' the lusty Carlin,
Best news that God can gie.'

' Has the duke hanged himsel' Carlin?
I las the duke hanged himsel' ?
Or has he ta'en frae the tither Willie
The hettest neuk o' hell.'

• The duke's hale an' tier, Carle,
The duke's hale an' her,

An' our ain Lord Nithsdale
Will soon be 'man?, us here.'

138

' Brush me my coat, Carlin,
Brush me my shoon,
I'll awa an' meet Lord Nithsdale
Whan he comes to our town.'

' Alake-a-day,' quo' the Carlin,

' Alake the day,' quo' she,

' He's owre in France at Charlie's hand

Wi' only ae pennie.'

' We'll sell a' our corn, Carlin,
We'll sell a' our bear,
An' we'll send to our ain Lord
A' our sette gear!' e

Make the piper blaw, Carlin,
Make the piper blaw ;
An' make the lads an' lasses baith,
Their souple legs shaw.

We'll a* be glad, Carlin,

We'll a' be glad;

An' play ' The Stuarts back again,

To put the Whigs mad !

e Sette Gear, money placed at interest.

139

KENMURE'S ON AN' AWA, WILLIE.

William, Viscount Kenraure, was beheaded
during the rebellion of 1715. He w is a devout
member of the Protestant church; was much
regretted ; and his memory is still revered by
the peasantry of Galloway and Nithsdale. ' He
was a virtuous nobleman, calm, sensible, reso-
lute, and resigned.' He was ancestor of the
present Hon. John Gordon, of Kenmure. He
departed from Kenmure, with about two hun-
dred horsemen into England, from whence he
never returned.

Part of this heroic song is printed in Ritson's
Collection of Scottish Songs. It has long been
popular in the low parts of Scotland. This
copy of it is printed from the recitation of
Mrs. Copland. It differs considerably from
Ritson's copy. Mrs. ( lopland had selected some
of the best verses from those various copies

140

which the Peasantry have of every old ballad
and song.

The redeemed verses are in brackets: they
are evidently of the same age as the others,
and, where tradition is uncertain, poetic merit
must decide.

KENMURE'S ON AN' AWA.

Kenmure's on an' awa, Willie,

Kenmure's on an' awa; —
An' Kemmure's lord is the bonniest lord

That ever Gallowa' saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie,

Success to Kenmure's baud;
There was never a heart that feared a Whig,

E'er rade by Kenmure's land.

[There's a rose in Kenmure's cap, Willie,
There's a rose in Kenmure's cap,

He'll steep it red in ruddie hearts' blede,
Afore the battle drap.]

141

For Kenmure's lads are men, Willie,

For Kenmure's lads are men;
Their hearts an' swords are mettle true,

An' that their faes shall ken !

They'll live an' die wi' fame, Willie,

They'll live an' die wi' fame,
And soon wi' soun' o' victorie,

May Kenmure's lads come hame!

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie,
Here's Kenmure's health in wine!

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's hlude.
Nor yet o' Gordon's line,

[He kissed his ladie's hand, Willie,

He kissed his ladie's hand ;
But pane's his ladie-eourtesie,

Whan he draws his hludie brand.]

His ladie's cheek was red, Willie,

His ladie's cheek was red;
Whan she saw his steely jupes put on,

Which smelled o' deadlie feud.]

142

Here's him that's far awa, Willie,

Here's him that's far awa !
And here's the flower that I loe best,

The rose that's like the snaw ! f

f In the ' History of the late Rebellion, (Drumfries,
1718') the author warmly espouses the Whig-interest, and
is continually inveighing on the cruelties practised by the
Jacobites. Such an outrage on humanity, however, ho can
no where adduce, as that of which government was guilty
in allowing their mob to insult the Lords Nithsdale, Der-
wentvvater, Kenmure, and other captive noblemen, during
their approach to London. We record it in his own words:

' The prisoners above-named (with many others) who
had been appointed to be carried to London, arrived there on
the ninth of December. They were brought as far as High-
gate by Brigadier Panton, Lieutenant-Colonel of Lumley's
regiment of horse, under a guard of an hundred of his
troopers; and were there received by Major-General Tatton
at the head of a detachment of about three hundred foot
guards, and one hundred and twenty horse-grenadier guards.
Here every one of them had his arms tied with a cord
coming across his back ; and being thus pinioned, they
were not allowed to hold the reins of the bridle; but each
of them had a foot-soldier leading his horse : and being
ranged into four divisions, according to the four different
prisons to which they were allotted, and each division placed

143

between a party of the horse grenadiers and a platoon of the
foot; in this manner General Tatton set out from Highgate
about noon, and proceeded to London through innumerable
crowds of spectators, who all of them expressed their ut-
most detestation of their rebellious attempt, by upbraiding
them with their crime, shouting them along in this dis-
graceful triumph, and incessantly crying out King George
forever; no tearming-pan bastard! the mobs in the mean
time marched before them, beating on a warming-pan,
while the Generals' drums beat a triumphant march. After
this, the noblemen, and three or four others, were sent to
the Tower; Mr. Forster, M'Intosh, and about seventy
more to Newgate ; sixty to the Marshalsea ; and seventy-
two to the Fleet.'

144

THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRD1E.

i.

Wha the deil hae we got for a King,

But a wee, wee German lairdie!
An' whan we gade to bring him hame,

He was delving in his kail-yardie.
Sheughing kail an' laying leeks,

But% the hose and but the breeks,

Up his beggar duds he cleeks,

The wee, wee German lairdie.
ii.

An' he's elapt down in our gudeman's chair,

The wee, wee German lairdie;
An' he's brought fouth o' foreign leeks.

An' dibblet them in his yardie.
He's pu'd the rose o' English lowns,

An' brak the harp o' Irish clowns,
But our thristle will jag his thumbs.

The wee, wee German lairdie.

" But, without.

145

in.
Come up aniang the Highland hills,

Thou wee, wee German Lairdie;
An' see how Charlie's lang Kail thrive,

He dihhlit in his yardie.
An' if a stock ye daur to pu',

Or haud the yoking of a pleugh,
We'll break yere sceptre o'er yere mou,'

Thou wee bit German Lairdie!

IV.

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,

N;ie fitting for a yardie;
An' our norlan' thristles winna pu',

Thou wee, wee German Lairdie!
An' we've the trenching blades o' wier,

Wad lib ye o' yere German gear;
An' pass ye 'neath the claymore's sheer,

Thou feekless German Lairdie!

There arc several variations of this curious old song;
some of them the Kditor has seen, and heard sung. The
one here preserved, seems a little more modern; the
others were more homely and roarse in their manner.

7

146

The first verse or" one of them runs thus :

' Wha the deil hae we got for a king?

But a wee bit German Lairdie ;
An' whan we gade to bring him hame,

He was delving in his yardie!
He threw his dibble owre the dyke,

An' brint his wee bit spadie;
An' swore wi' a' the English he could,

He'd be nae mair a Lairdie ! '

There are others which merit preservation.

' He'll ride nae mair on strae sonks,
For gawing his German hurdies;
But he sits on our gude King's throne,
Amang the English Lairdies.

* # *

Auld Scotland, thou'rt owre cauld a hole,

For nursing siccan vermin;
But the vera dogs o' England's court

Can bark an' howl in German !'

147

AWA, WHIGS, AWA!

This old song has long been a favourite
among all classes, probably for its beautiful
tune. The two first verses may be found in
the Scots Musical Museum. Those annexed
have never been printed, perhaps from their
strong and direct severity. We may deem it
a fair specimen of that bitter humour which
has so long rankled in the bigotry of zeal and
party-dispute.

It is from the recitation of Mrs. Copland.

Aw a, Whigs, awa, awa, Whigs, awa,
Ye're but a pack o' traitor lowns,
Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.
Our thristles flourish'd frseh and fair^

An' bonnie bloom'd our roses,
But Whigs earn like a frost in June,
An' vvither'd a' our posies.
Awa, Whigs, awa.

148

Our sad decay in kirk and state,

Surpasses my descriving;
The Whigs came 'mang us for a curse,

An' we hae done wi' thriving.
Awa, Whigs, awa.

A foreign Whiggish lown brought seeds

In Scottish yird to cover,
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,

An' pack him to Hanover.
Awa, Whigs, awa.

The deil he heard the stoure o' tongues,

An' ramping came amang us;
But he pitied us sae wi' cursed Whigs,

He turned an' wadna wrang us.
Awa, Whigs, awa.

The deil sat grim amang the reek,
Thrang bundling brunstane matches;

An' croon'd 'mang the beuk-taking Whigs,
Scraps of auld Calvin's catches !

Awa, Whigs, awa, awa, Whigs, awa,

Ye'll run me out o' wun spunks,
Awa, Whigs, awa.

149

In the copy printed in the Museum there are two
verses which bear evident marks of the hand of Burns.

' Our ancient crown 's fa'n in the dust,
Ded blind them wi' the stoure o't;
And write their names in his black beuk,
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't !

Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,

But we may see him wauken ;
Gude help the day when Royal heads

Are hunted like a mauken ! ' h

h A mauken, a hare.

150

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE.

The Highland Laddie seems to be the son
of James VII. This song belongs to the Low-
lands of Scotland, as the expression ' ayont
the Forth,' sufficiently certifies. It is printed
from the recitation of the young girl who con-
tributed ' Derwentwater.' She says, ' This
song is very rare. An old Catholic woman
used to sing it to me, when I was a child, and
attached to it many more verses of an inferior
nature, which I have endeavoured to separate
from the good, and thus give the song a fairer
shape. '

151

Princely is my luver's weed,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,

His veins are fu' o' princely blude,
My bonnie Highland laddie.

The gay bonnet maun circle roun',
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

The brows wad better fa' a crown,
My bonnie Highland laddie.

There's a hand the sceptre bruiks,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

Better it fa's the shepherd's creuk,
My bonnie Highland laddie.

There's a hand the braid-sword draws,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

The gowd sceptre it seemlier fa's,
My bonnie Highland laddie.

He's the best piper i' the north,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

An' ha> dang a' avont the Forth,
Mv bonnie Highland laddie.

152

Soon at the Tweed he mints ' to blaw,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

Here's the lad ance far awa'!
The bonnie highland laddie !

There's nae a southron fiddler's hum,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

Can bide the war pipe's deadlie strum,
My bonnie Highland laddie.

An' he'll raise sic an eldritch drone,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

He'll wake the snorers round the throne,
My bonnie Highland laddie.

And the targe an' braid sword's twang,
Bonnie, laddie, Highland laddie;

To hastier march will gar them gang,
My bonnie Highland laddie.

Till f'rae his daddie's chair he'll blaw,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

' Here's the lad ance tar awa, '
My bonnie Highland laddie.

1 Intends.

153

There are many old fragments of songs to the tune,
and repetitions of ' The Highland Laddie.' Some
parts of them are characteristic and lively:
* * * *

A' the lasses o' Dunkel',

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ;
Brew gude ale for Charlie's sel',
My bonnie Highland laddie.

The bonniest May k in a' Dundee,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;

Made down the bed for young Charlie,
The bonnie Highland laddie. '

k Maiden.
The Editor has been informed by some intelligent
Highlanders that they have many admirable Jacobite song*
' ayont the Forth, ' in the Erse language.

154

MERRIE MAY THE KEEL ROWE.

This is a popular bridal tune in Scotland;
and, like many other fragments of Scottish
song, has the Jacobitical rose growing among
its love sentiments. It seems to be the original
of that pretty household song

' Weel may the Boatie rowe.'

i.
As 1 came down the Canno' gate,

The Canno' gate, the Canno' gate,
As I came down the Canno' gate,

I heard a lassie sing, O ;
' Merry may the keel rowe,

The keel rowe, the keel rowe,
Merrie may the keel rowe,

The ship that my love's in, O!

155

ii.

My love has breath o' roses,

O' roses, o' roses,
Wi' arms o' lilie posies,

To fauld a lassie in, O.
Merrie may the keel rovve,

The keel rowe, the keel rowe,
Merrie may the keel rowe,

The ship that my love's in, O !
in.
My love he wears a bonnet,

A bonnet, a bonnet,
A snawy rose upon it,

A dimple on his chin, O;
Merrie may the keel rowe,

The keel rowe, the keel rowe,
Merrie may the keel rowe,

The ship that my love's in, O!

156

SONG OF THE CHEVALIER.

' TO DAUNTON ME.'

This old song is in the possession of Mrs.
Copland. There are several variations of it,
all bearing the same stamp of desperate reso-
lution. Burns preserved a eopy of it, which
is published in his Remarks on Scottish Song.
There is a slight difference in the last verse.
It is no easy matter to procure a copy of an
old song which has been little in print without
finding many interpolated verses. There is a
stray verse which seems to have formed no
part of the original song, but to have been
annexed since the fatal rebellion of 1745. It
runs thus :

O I hae scarce to lay me on,
Of kingly fields were ance my ain ;
Wi' the moorcock on the mountain-bree.
But hardship ne'er can daunton me.

157

Of the many variations the Editor has selected what
he deemed the best :

Up came the gallant chief Lochiel,
An' drew his glaive o' nut-brown -steel.
Says ' Charlie set your fit to me
An' shaw me wha will daunton thee ! '

This is extremely characteristic of the noble
Lochiel.

To daunton me an' me sae young,

An' gude king James's auldest son!

O that's the thing that ne'er can be,

For the man's unborn that will daunton me!

O set me ance on Scottish land,
An' gie me my braid-sword in my hand,
Wi' my blue bonnet aboon my bree,
An' shaw me the man that will daunton me-
lt's nae the battle's deadlic stoure,
Nor friends pruived fause that'll gar me cower

158

But the reckless hand o' povertie,
O! that alane can daunton me.

High was I born to kingly gear,
But a cuif ' came in my cap to wear,
But wi' my braid sword I'll let him see
He's nae the man will daunton me.

1 Cuif- — a simpleton, a ninny.

' I started, muttering, blockhead coof.'

Burn?.

159

JACOBITE SONGS, 1745.

CARLISLE YETTS.

(a fragment.)

This affecting old fragment is copied by
Mrs. Copland, and transmitted for publication
with the following remarks.

' There are songs belonging to the history
of private families which are cherished by them
with all the fondness of traditionary attach-
ment. They are preserved with a romantic af-
fection, like the gore-crusted weapons of heroic
achievement. Such perhaps is the song of
' Carlisle \ etts.' It was composed apparently
in those afflicting times of murder and desola-
tion, when so many heads of our bravest
countrymen ' dripped bloodie' on the gate-
*pike-5 ol Carlisle. It seems by the strong pas-

160

sion displayed in it, to have been written when
the blood was yet unwashen from the de-
stroyer's hand.

* I do not think it to have been the compo-
sition of a woman. The mild composure of
the female heart would have shrunk back from
such gory and harrowing delineation. I rather
think it to have been written by some of the
unfortunate adherents of the Prince, when
lurking from wood to hill, amid all the horror*
of proscription.'

CARLISLE YETTS.

# # # #

White was the rose in his gay bonnet,

As he faulded me in his broached plaidie;
His hand whilk clasped the truth o' luve,

O it was ay in battle readie!
His lang king hair in yellow hanks,

Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddie;
But now they wave o'er Carlisle yetts

In dripping ringlets clotting bloodie.

161

My father's blood's in that flower-tap,

My brother's in that hare-bell's blossom,
This white rose was steeped in ray luve's blood

An' I'll ay wear it in my bosom.

# # # #

ill.

When I came first by merry Carlisle,
Was ne'er a town sae sweetly seeming;

The White Rose flaunted owre the wall,
The thristlcd banners far were streaming!

When I came next by merry Carlisle,
O sad, sad seemed the town an' eerie!

The auld, auld men came out an' wept,

' O maiden come ye to seek yere dearie? '

# # # #

v.

There's ae drap o' blude atween my breasts,

An' twa in my links o' hair sac yellow;
Thetane I'll ne'er wash, an' the tither ne'er karae,

lint I'll sit an' pray aneath the willow.
Wae, wae, upon that cruel heart,

VVae, wae upon that hand sac hloodie,
Which fea>ts in our richest Scottish blude,

An' makes sae mony a doleful widow.

M

162

It is somewhat remarkable, that amid all the popu-
lar bigotry of Scotland in behalf of the reigning Prince,
there are no songs in defence of his rights, nor in
praise of their deliverer the Duke of Cumberland. The
Caledonian Muse, with a romantic attachment, seems
to have taken the part of the royal exile, and to have
caught hold of the distresses and ruin which over-
powered her country. Whoever is versant in the
national poetry of Scotland will readily subscribe to
this opinion. The gallant, but unsuccessful attempt
of the followers of the Chevalier, powerfully interested
even those who were adverse to his cause. The bravery
and generosity displayed by these unfortunate men,
will always be remembered to the honour of their
nation; while the merciless conduct of their conqueror
will be branded with infamy. The national feeling
was strongly roused, and the poets partook of the com-
mon sympathy. The Editor does not remember to
have met with a more glowing picture of the outrages
committed at that time, than is contained in the fol-
lowing passage in a letter from Allan Cunning-
ham, to Mrs. Fletcher of Edinburgh. c I remem-
ber, ' says he, ' a verse of a ballad which I composed,
descriptive of the ravages committed in my devoted
Scotland in 1745:'

163

' The orphan-child weeps by the flame-bursting cottage,
And prints its light footsteps in circles of gore: —
It lifts the blood-locks of the brown-cheeked peasant,
And screams o'er his wounds, to thy echoes
Benmore.' m

There is a ballad already published in the Scots
Musical Museum entitled ' Crookie Den,' or f The
Duke of Cumberland's descent into Hell.' It is the
sublime of humour.

' Were ye e'er at Crookie Den ?
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
Saw ye Willie and his men ?
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie !

They're our faes, wha brint an' slew,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
There at last they gat their due,

My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie.

The hettest place was fill'd wi' twa,

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ;
It was Willie and his papa,

My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie.

I'll, naim: nt a biidi hill in Perthshire.

164

The deil sat girning i' the neuk,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ;

Breaking sticks to roast the Duke,
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie.

The bluidy monster gied a yell,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ;

An' loud the laugh gaHe round a' hell,
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie.'

Without entering at all into the discussion of po-
litical differences which have been set at rest for ever,
it is impossible to regard the sanguinary and unrelent-
ing persecutions which ensued after the victor)' of Cul-
loden, without feelings of horror and regret. We are
not to be surprised, therefore, that the peasantry of
Scotland, harassed and provoked by those cruel visi-
tations, should give vent to the bitterness of their feel-
ings, by consigning their oppressor to all the miseries
which rustic fancy, inspired by revenge, could devise.
The above ballad, though keenly satirical, is but a
sketch compared with the one we now present to the
reader, which we have selected, as containing, in many
passages, a singular union of the ludicrous with the
horrible, not unworthy of the genius and the humour
i.f Burns.

165

CUMBERLAND AND MURRAY'S DESCENT
INTO HELL.

i.
Ken ye whare cleekie m Murray's gane ?
He's to dwall in his lang hame;
The beddle n clapt him on the doup,
' Hard I've earned my gray groat :
Lie thou there, and sleep thou soun',,
God winna waken sic a lown ! '

ii.
Whare' s his gowd, and whare's his gain,

He rakit out 'neath Satan's wame?

He has nae what '11 pay his shot,

Nor caulk the keel o' Charon's boat.

Be there gowd whare he's to beek,

He'll rake- it out o' brunstane-smeek.

in.

He's in a' Satan's frything pans,

Scouth'ring the blude frae affhis ban's ;

He's washing them in brunstan lowe,

His kintra's blude it winna thowe!

The hottest soap-suds o' perdition

('anna out thae stains be washin'.

,n Ready 10 take an advantage — inclined to circumvent.
11 Tin Beddle, the gra\c-digjj;cr.

166

Ae devil roar'd till hearse and roupet,0

' He's pyking the gowd frae Satan's poupit!*

Anither roar'd wi' eldritch yell,

' He's howking the key-stane out o' hell,

To damn us mair wi' God's day-light ! ' —

And he douked i' the caudrons out o' sight.

v.
He stole auld Satan's brunstane leister, p
Till his waukit loofs were in a blister;
He stole his Whig- spunks tipt wi' brunstane,
And stole his scalping whittle's set-stane,
And out of its red hot kist he stole
The very charter rights o' hell.

o Hoarse, as with a cold.
P Leister, is a pronged iron instrument, somewhat re-
sembling Neptune's Trident, used to strike fish, and here
poetically transferred to Satan. Burns, humorously enough,
has made this spear part of the paraphernalia of Death, in
his celebrated Satire on Dr. Hornbook.

' An awfu' scythe, out-ovvre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling hang ;
A three- taed leister on the ither
Lay, large and lang. '

* 167

VI.

' Satan tent weel the pilfering villain,

He'll scrimp yere revenue by stealin':

Th' infernal boots in which you stand in,

With which your worship tramps the damn'd in,

He'll wyle them aff your cloven cloots,

And wade through hell fire i' yere boots.'

VII.

Auld Satan cleekit him by the spaul',
And stappit him i' the dub o'-hellj —
The foulest fiend there doughtna bide him,
The damn'd they wadna fry beside him.
Till the bluidy duke came trysting hither,
An' the ae fat butcher fry'd the tither !

VIII.

Ae devil sat splitting brunstane-matches,
Ane roasting the Whigs like bakers' batches;
Ane wi' fat a Whig was basting,
Spent wi' frequent prayer an' fasting;
A ceas'd whan thae twin butchers roar'd,
A nil hell's grim hangman stapt an' glowr'd!

IX

' Fye ! gar bake a pye in haste,
Knead it of infernal paste,'
Quo' Satan : — and in his mitten'd hand,
1 1c hynt up bluidie Cumberland,

168 .

An' whittlet him down like bow-kail castock,
And in his hettest furnace roasted.

x.
Now hell's black table-claith was spread,
The infernal grace was reverend said :
Yap 'i stood the hungry fiends a' o'er it,
Their grim jaws gaping to devour it ;
When Satan cried out, fit to scouner, r
' Owre rank o' judgments' sic a dinner.'

i Yap, or yape. Having a keen appetite for food.
1 To scouner, to nauseate.

169

HAME, HAME, HAME.

This song is printed from a copy found in
Burns's Common Place Book, in the Editor's
possession. It has long been popular in Gallo-
way and Nithsdale, and has many variations, of
which this is the best.

I.

Hame, hamc, haine, Hame fain wad I be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on

the tree,
The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
Hame, hame, hame, Hame fain wad I be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

ii.
The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa',
Tiie bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannic,
A;i' green it will grow in my ain countrie.

170

Hame, hame, hame, Hame fain wad I be,
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

in.
O there's naught frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, Hame fain wad I be,
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

IV.

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their

graves ;
But the sun thro' the mirk, blinks blythe in my ee,
' I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.'
Hame, hame, hame, Hame, fain wad I be,
Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

It is a fact no less remarkable than gratifying, that
no language, ancient or modern, affords an equivalent
term for that concentration of domestic felicity and at-
tachment which constitutes the meaning of our word
Home. A writer, equally celebrated for her eloquence

171

and her knowledge of human nature, has noticed this
peculiarity, and her illustration of it is striking, and
indeed sublime.

' C'est en vain qu'un Anglais se plait un moment
aux. mceurs etrangeres ; son cceur revient toujours aux
premieres impressions de sa vie. Si vous interrogez
des Anglais voguant sur un vaisseau a l'extremite du
monde, et que vous leur demandiez ou ils vont; ils
vous repondront : chez nous — home, si c'est en Angle-
terre qu'ils retournent. Leur vceux, leur sentimens, a
quel que distance qu'ils soient de leur patrie, sont toujours
tournes vers elle. Corinne, Tome ii. '210.

It is this same endearing call of Ho me which vibrates
on every chord of a Scotchman's heart; which cheers
him in absence from his native country, and sustains
him through every vicissitude of toil and danger. The
minstrelsy of Scotland has, perhaps, a greater power
over the heart when repeated in a strange land ; for. as
each song possesses some local allusion, it brings
imagination to the aid of memory, and thus produces a
'.harm to soothe the woes even of banishment itself.

172
THE WAES O' SCOTLAND.

(FROM MRS. COPLAND.)

Whan I left thee, bonnie Scotland,

Thou wert fair to see,
Fresh as a bonnie bride i' the morn

Whan she maun wedded be!

Whan I came back to thee, Scotland,

Upon a May-morn fair,
A bonnie lass sat at our town-en',

Earning her yellow hair.

' O hey! O hey!' sung the bonnie lass,

' O hey! an' vvae's me!
There's joy to the Whigs, an' land to the Whigs,

An' nocht but wae to me!

' O hey! O hey!' sung the bonnie lass,

' O hey! an' wae's me!
There's siccan sorrow in Scotland,

As een did never see.

173

' O hey! O hey for my father auld !

' O hey! for my mither clear!
An' my heart will burst for the bonnie lad

Wha left me lanesome here!'

[ had na gane in my ain Seotland

Mae miles than twa or three,
Whan I saw the head o' my ain father

Coming up the gate to me.

' A traitors /wad!' and ' a traitor's head!'

Loud bawled a bluidy lown;
But 1 drew frae the sheath inv glaive o' weir,

An' strake the reaver s down.

' Rearer, one who is alternately the robber and the de-
fender of Ills country; — one who alike pillage"- friends and
foes. Such were the Highlanders' inroads u\v>\\ the Low-
landers. Annandale, a distric' in Dumfries-shire, was
once the resort whence such banditti issued. The John-
stones and Jardines, now two of the most respectable fami-
1: - in the district, were chieftains or leaders, by hereditary
ri'dit. A bloody and fatal rivalship existed between tbeni
Mid the Maxwells of Nithsdale: hence disastrous and
de -|>e'Mte inroad' almost wasted both divisions. Large

174

I hied me hame to my father's ha',

My dear auld mither to see ;
But she lay 'mang the black izles*

Wi' the death-tear in her ee.

0 wha has wrocht this bluidy wark ?
Had I the reaver here,

I'd wash his sark in his ain heart blude,
And gie't to his dame to wear!

1 hadna gane frae my ain dear hame

But twa short miles and three,
Till up came a captain o' the Whigs,
Says, ' Traitor, bide ye me ! '

I grippit him by the belt sae braid,
It birsted i' my hand,

vaults of stone were used for the security of the chieftains'
cattle. One of these was lately taken down atDalswinton,
of immense strength, with a ponderous iron-door, which
the old men said ' was to keep out the Annandale thieves.'

' Johnstone and Jardine ride thieves a',' has heen affixed
as a satirical motto below the marauder-crests. A spur, with
wings, is the Johnstone's arms.

1 Unburnt embers.

175

But I threw him frae his weir-saddle
An' drew my burlie brand.

' Shaw mercy on me,' quo' the lown,

An' low he knelt on knee ;
But by his thie was my father's glaive,

Whilk gude king Brus did gie. .

An' buckled roun' him was the broider'd belt"
Whilk my mither's hands did weave,

u The classical reader may trace a resemblance of this in-
cident with that which decided the fate ofTurnus, after his
combat with /Eneas. But it would be equally as unfair to
accuse the author of this affecting ballad on that account,
as it would have been in Mr. Addison to ground a charge of
plagiarism on his parallel ofChevy-Chacc with the iEneid.
The absurdity of detracting from the merit (.('the moderns,
because their genius approximates to that of the ancients,
has perhaps never been better ridiculed than in the follow-
ing repartee of Hums, lie was quoting a brilliant sentiment
in an old Scotch song, with his accustomed warmth, toape-
dantic schoolmaster, who coolly observed, ' that it was very
good, — hut the thought was in Horace.' ' That may be,'
replied Burns, ' but Horace stole it from the Scotchman,
«tnd be d d to him ! '

176'

My tears they mingled wi' his heart's blude,
An reeked upon my glaive.

I wander a' night 'mang the lands I own'd,

Whan a' folk are asleep,
And I lie oure my father and mither's grave,

An hour or tvva to weep !

0 fatherless, and mitherless,
Without a ha' or hame,

1 maun wander through my dear Scotland,

And bide a traitor's blame.

177

THE SUN'S BRIGHT IN FRANCE.
(from miss macartney.)

After the battle of Culloden the wretched
fugitives were driven among the woods and
mountains of Scotland, where many perished
with hunger and fatigue. Some took refuge
in foreign countries; and there are many af-
fecting fragments of song which seem to have
been the composition of those exiles. As it
was treason to sing them, the names of their
authors were concealed beyond a possibility of
discovery, and it is probably owing to this cir-
cumstance that they are now passed away and
forgotten. The following gives a simple and
touching picture of the feelings of an exile.

178

THE SUN'S BRIGHT IN FRANCE.

The sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he ;
But he has tint the blythe blink he had

In my ain countrie.

It's nae my ain ruin

That weets ay my ee,
But the dear Marie I left a-hin',

Wi' sweet bairnies three.

Fu' bonnolie lowed my ain hearth,

An' smiled my ain Marie;
O, I've left a' my heart behind,

In my ain countrie.

O I am leal to high heaven,

An' it '11 be leal to me,
An' there I'll meet ye a' soon,

Frae mv ain countrie!

17.9

THE LAMENTATION OF AN OLD MAN
OVER THE RUIN OF HIS FAMILY.

(MRS. COPLAND.)

# # #

I had three sons, a' young, stout and bauld,

An' they a' lie at ither's sides bluidie and cauld;

I had a hame wi' a sweet wife there,

An' twa bontiie grand-bairns my smiling to share;

I had a steer o' gude owsen to ca',

An' the bhidie duke o' Cumberland's ruined

them a'.
Revenge and despair ay by turns weet my ee,
The i;t' </ the spoiler I lang for to see;
Friendless I lie, and friendless I gang,
I've nane but kind heaven to tell o' my wrang!
' Thy auld arm,' quo' heaven, ' eanna strike down

the proud,'
' I will keep to mysel' the avenging thy blood.' x

x There cannot he ascertained any particular place to
which these songs relate, nor do thcv, like many others,
hear evidence for themselves. Being fragments, the verses
if local authority arc perhaps lost.

180

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

i.

There liv'd a lass in Inverness,

She was the pride of a' the town,
She was blythe as a lark on the flower-tap,

Whan frae the nest it's newly flown.
At kirk she wan the aukl folks luve,
At dance she wan the Ladses' een;
She was the blythest ay o' the blythe,
At wooster-trystes or Halloween.
II.
As I came in by Inverness,

The simmer-sun was sinking down,
O there I saw the weel-faur'd lass,

And she was greeting >' through the town.
The gray-haired men were a' i' the streets,

And auld dames crying, (sad to see!)
' The flower o' the lads o' Inverness,
Lie bludie on Culloclcn-lee!'

■v Weeping aloud.

181

in.

She tore her haffet-links of gowd,

And dighted ay her comely ee ;
' My father lies at bluidie Carlisle,

At Preston sleep my brethren three!
I thought my heart could haud nae mair,

Mae tears could never blin' my ee;
But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,

A dearer ane there ne'er could be !

IV.

' He trysted me o' luve yestreen,

Of love-tokens he gave me three;
But he's faulded i' the arms o' gory wier,

Oh ne'er again to think o' me!
The forest-flowers shall be my bed,

My food shall be the vvild-berrie,
The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld,

And wauken'd again 1 winna be.

V.

O weep, O weep, ye Scottish dames,
Weep till ye blin' a mither's ee;

Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,
But naked corses sad to see.

182

O spring is blythesome to the year,

Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie;
But oh ! what spring can raise them up,

Whose bluidie weir has sealed the ee?

VI.

The hand o' God hung heavie here,

And lightly touched foul tyrannie !
It strake the righteous to the ground,

And lifted the destroyer hie.
' But there's a day,' quo' my God in prayer,

' Whan righteousness shall bear the gree;
I'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,

And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's ee!h

b There have been still ruder, if not older words than
these, of which all that remain, perhaps, are four lines,
which Burns has adopted, and which form the first half
stanza of his exquisite verses on this interesting subject.

The lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
For een and morn, she cries, alas !

And ay the saut tear blins her ee.
Drumossie Moor, Drumossie day,

A waefu1 day it was to me;

183

For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,

Their graves are growing green to see -,
And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's ee !
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,

A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou has made sair,

That ne'er did wrung to thine or thee !

184

THE YOUNG MAXWELL.

This ballad is founded on fact. A young
gentleman of the family of Maxwell, an hono-
rable and potent name in Galloway and Niths-
dale, being an adherent of Charles, suffered in
the general calamity of his friends.

After seeing his paternal house reduced to
ashes; his father killed in its defence; his only
sister dying with grief for her father, and three
brothers slain; he assumed the habit of an old
shepherd; and in one of his excursions singled
out one of the individual men who had ruined
his family. After upbraiding him for his
cruelty, he slew him in single combat.

The Editor has taken some pains to ascertain
the field of this adventure, but without success.
It has been, in all likelihood, on the skirts of
Nithsdale, or Galloway. These notices being
known only to a few of the Stuarts' adherents,
have all perished along with the fall of their
cause.

185

Whare gang ye, thou silly auld carle?

And what do ye carry there ?
I'm gaun to the hill-side, thou sodger gentleman,

To shift my sheep their lair.

Ac stride or twa took the silly auld carle,

An' a glide lang stride took he:
' I trow thou be a feck auld carle,

Will ye shaw the way to me?'

And he has [jane vvi' the sillv auld carle,

Adown by the green-wood side:
' Light down, and gang, thou sodger gentleman,

Tor here ye canna ride.'

He drew the reins o' his bonnie gray steed,

An' lightly down he sprang:
Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat,

Whan; the gowden tassels hang.

He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle,
An' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree;

An' wha was it but the young Maxwell!
An' bis irude brown sword drew he!

186*

Thou killed my lather, thou vile South 'ion!

An' ye killed my breth'ren three!
Whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister,

I lov'd as the light o' my ee!

Draw out yere sword, thou vile South'ron!

Red wat wi' blude o' my kin!
That sword it crapped the bonniest flower

E'er lifted its head to the sun!

There's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father !

There's twa for my brethren three !
An' there's ane to thy heart, for my ae sister,

Wham I lov'd as the light o' my ee !

The admirers of Scottish rustic poetry, of which this
Song is a beautiful specimen, are again indebted to
the enthusiasm and fine taste of Mrs. Copland for the
recovery and contribution of these verses. There is a
variation in the third stanza, which would have been
adopted had it not been an interpolation. It expressly
points to the scene of encounter.

187

' And gane he has wi' the sleeky auld carle,
Around the hill sae steep ;
Until they came to the auld castle
Which hings owre Dee sae deep.'0

' The noble strength of character in this ballad is only
equalled by the following affecting story.

In the Rebellion of 1745, a party of Cumberland's dra-
goons was hurrying through Nithsdale in search of rebels —
Hungry and fatigued they called at a lone widow's house,
and demanded refreshment. Ilerson.a lad of sixteen, dressed
them up lung kale and butter, and the good woman brought
new milk, which she told them was all her stock. One of the
party inquired, with seeming kindness, how she lived —
' Indeed,' quoth she, ' the cow and the kaleyard, wi' God's
blessing's a' mv mai/cn.' lie arose, and with his sabre killed
the cow, and destroyed all the kale. — The poor woman was
thrown upon the world, and died of a broken heart — the
disconsolate youth, her son, wandered away, beyond the in-
quiry of friend-, or the search of compassion. In the conti-
nental war, when the British army had gained a great and
signal victory, the soldiery were making merry with wine,
and recounting their exploits — A dragoon roared out, ' I once
starved a Scotch witch in Nithsdale — I killed her cow and
destroyed her greens; but,' added he, ' she could live for all
that, on her God, as she said!' 'And don't you rue it,'
cried a young soldier, starting up, ' don't you rue it ?' ' Rue

188

what ?' said he, * rue aught like that ! ' * Then, by my G — d,'
cried the youth, unsheathing his sword, ' that woman was
my mother ! draw, you brutal villain, draw.' — They fought ;
the youth passed his sword twice through the dragoon's
body, and, while he turned him over in the throes of death,
exclaimed, ' had you rued it you should have only Veen
punished ly your God! '

189

LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME.

Lang hae we parted been,

Lassie, my dearie,
Now are we met again,
Lassie, lie near me.
Near me, near me,
Lassie, lie near me;
Lang hast thou lain thy lane,
Lassie, lie near me.

Frae dread Culloden's field,

Bluidy and dreary,
Mourning my country's fate
Lanely and wearie;
Wearie, wearie,
Lanely and wearie,
Become a sad banish'd wight,
Far frae my dearie.

190

Loud loud the wind did roar,

Stormy and e'erie,
Far frae my native shore,
Far frae my dearie ;
Near me, near me,
Dangers stood near me,
Now I've eseaped them a',
Lassie, lie near me.

A' that I hae endured,

Lassie, my dearie,
Here in thine arms is cured,
Lassie, lie near me.
Near me, near me,
Lassie, lie near me;
Lang hast thou lain thy Jane,
Lassie, lie near me. '

f It has been suggested that this song would look better if
it were printed JViJie, lie near me, instead of Lassie, lie near
me. Had not the Editor thought that these songs, in their
present garb, were worthy of all acceptation, he certainly
would not have brought them before the public. He is
conscious that he cannot by any attempt at this sort of

191

squeamish delicacy atone for presumption. Who would
pardon even Dr. Johnson and his brother commentators,
if, instead of illustrating, they had dared to garble the works
of the immortal Shakspeare? A licence of this sort, if once
assumed, would lead to mischiefs of incalculable extent;
every puny critic would be correcting and altering, until
the original text of an author would no longer be known.
What would then become of the standard works of our
poets ? Their finest effusions, their boldest flights, their
most vivid descriptions, would be all at the mercy of those
witlings, who fancy that the power of discovering faults im-
plies the power of correcting them, and whose vanity in dis-
playing that power is only equalled by their abuse of it.

It is hardly possible to fix a standard of public taste by
which each poem might be tried and qualified for general
approbation. The fable of the old man whose wives plucked
his head bald because one disliked white hairs and the other
black ones, shewed the futility as well as the danger of at-
tending to these scruples. It would be easy to alter de-
tached parts of these songs with some effect, but not with-
out destroying the good old harmony of the whole. In
fact, then1 appear- to be no other way of mending the
writings of these forgotten bards but as the Highlander
mended his gun : — ' He ga\c it a new stock, a new hick,
and a ncic barrel. ,

192

BANNOCKS O' BARLEY.

In the Scots Musical Museum there is but
one verse and a half preserved of this song.
One is surprised and incensed to see so many
fine songs shorn of their very best verses for
fear they should exceed the bounds of a page !
The Editor has collected the two last heart-
rousing verses, which, he believes, will com-
plete the song.

Bannocks o' bear-meal, bannocks o' barley,
Here's to the Highlandman's bannocks o' barley !
Wha in a brulzies will first cry ' a parley ! ' —
Never the lads wi' the bannocks o' barley !
Bannocks o' bear-meal, bannocks o' barley,
Here's to the Highlandman's bannocks of barley!

• ? A scuffle, a quarrel.

193

Wha drew the gude claymore for Charlie?
Wha cow'd the lowns o' England rarely?
An' clavv'd their backs at Falkirk fairly? —
Wha but the lads wi' the bannocks o' barley!
Bannocks o' bear-meal, &c.

Wha, when hope was blasted fairly,
Stood in ruin wi' bonnie Prince Charlie?
An' neath the Duke's bluidy paws dreed fu' sairly ?
Wha but the lads wi' the bannocks o' barley! h
Bannoeks o' bear-meal, &,c.

h Among the brave supporters of Prince Charles few
excited greater admiration than the seven Highlanders who
concealed him in Glenmorriston s cave, and, in disguise,
procured necessaries and information. Although fugitives,
and in poverty, these seven had the nobleness of mind to
prefer fidelity to the man whom they considered as their
prince, to thirty thousand pounds, the reward offered for his
person. (See Home's History of the Rebellion, if it be
proper to call that a history, in which facts of the first im-
portance are deliberately and dishonestly concealed, and in
which the severities inflicted after the battle of Culloden,
are altogether omitted.) But of all the men who preserved
an unshaken fidelity to theChevalier in his falling fortunes,
O

154

the most heroic was Roderick M'Kenzie, who sacrificed
his life for him, with a presence of mind, and a self-devo-
tion, unparelleled either in ancient or in modern story.

' About this time, one Roderick M'Kenzie, a merchant
of Edinburgh, who had been out with the Prince, was
skulking among the hills about Glenmorriston, when some
of the soldiers met with him. As he was about the Prince's
size and age, and not unlike him in the face, being a gen-
teel man, and well dressed, they took him for the Prince.
M'Kenzie tried to escape them but could not, and being
determined not to be taken and hanged (which he knew, if
taken, would be his fate) he bravely resolved to die sword
in hand; and, in that death, to serve the Prince more than
he could do by living. The bravery and steadiness of
M'Kenzie confirmed the soldiers in the belief that he was
the prince, whereupon one of them shot him; who, as he
fell, cried out, ' you have killed your Prince, you have
killed your Prince,' and expired immediately. The soldiers,
overjoyed with their supposed good-fortune in meeting with
so great a prize, immediately cut off the brave young man's
head, and made all the baste they could to Fort Augustus,
to tell the news of their great heroical feat, and to lay claim
to the thirty thousand pounds, producing the head, which
several said they knew to be the Prince's head. This great
news, with the head, was soon carried to the Duke, who,
believing the great work was done, set forward to London,
from Fort Augustus, on the eighteenth of July.'

195

YOUNG AIRLY.

This beautiful fragment is evidently copied
from an old song called ' The Bonnie House
of Airlie' Probably some proscribed minstrel
of 1745, has infused into it the stronger poetic
glow of Jacobitism. ' Young Airlie' was eldest
son to Ogilvie, Earl of Airlie, and with his
father's vassals joined Prince Charles. He
married a daughter of Johnstone of Westerhall
in Annandale — a lady of characteristic family
courage, who followed her lord through all the
dangers and troubles of war. In the hasty
inarch through Dumfries, a confidential friend
wished Lady Ogilvie to return to her father's
from the uncertain tumult of rebellion. ' O!
Mary (said she) Charlie's the righteous heir!
wha wadna gang wi' Charlie!' Young Lord
Airlie escaped to France after the battle of
Culloden.

196

YOUNG AIRLY.

Ken ye aught o' gude Lochiel,
Or ken ye aught o' Airly ? '
They've buckled them on their weir-harnessing,
An* aff an' awa wi' Charlie.'

' Bring here to me,' quo' the hie Argyle,

My bands in the morning early,
An' we'll raise sic a lowe that heaven shannasloke

In the dwalling o' young Lord Airly

' What lowe is yon?' quo' the gude Lochiel,
Whilk rises wi' the sun sae early ? '

' By the God o' my kin,' quo' the young Ogilvie,
It's my ain bonnie Hame o' Airly! '

' Put up yere sword,' quo' the gude Lochiel,

An' ' put it up* quo' Charlie;
' We'll raise sic a lowe roun' the fause Argyle!

An' light it wi' a spunk frae Airly.'

197

* It's nae my Ha', nor my lands a' reft,
Whilk reddens my cheeks sae sairlie;

But my mither an' twa sweet babies I left
To smoor i' the reek o' Airly.'

198

THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT.

This song has been known in another garb,
for many years in Galloway. The three last
verses, within brackets, are now first printed.
The fifth, sixth, and seventh verses, are wholly
by Burns. He sent a copy of it to the ' Scots
Musical Museum.'

O ! I am come to the low countrie,

Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Without a penny in my purse

To buy a meal to me.

It was nae sae in the Highland hills,

Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
Nae woman in the country wide

Sae happy was as me.

For then I had a score o' Kye,

Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Feeding on yon hill sae high,

And giving milk to me.

199

And there I had three-score o' yowes,

Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,

And casting woo to me,

I was the happiest of a* the clan,

Sair, sair may I repine,
For Donald was the bravest man,

And Donald he was mine !

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last

Sae far to set us free ;
My Donald's arm was wanted then,

For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell!

Right to the wrang did yield ;
My Donald and his country fell

Upon Culloden field!

[I hae nocht left me ava,

Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
But bonnie orphan lad-weans twa,

To seek their bread wi' me.

200

[I hae yet a tocher band,

Ochon, ochon, ochrie !
My winsome Donald's durk an' bran',

Into their hands to gie —

[There's only ae blink o' hope left,

To lighten my auld ee,
To see my bairns gie bludie crownes'

To them gar't Donald die ! k ]

1 Crowns, or Crouns — the skull or crown of the head.

' Clowr'd snouts, an' bluidie crowns,'

Old Scottish Ball.
k The determined fierceness of the Highland character
urges to acts of desperate resolution and heroism. One of
a clan, at the battle of Culloden, being singled out and
wounded, set his back against a park wall, and with his
targe and claymore bore singly the onset of a party of dra-
goons. Pushed to desperation he made resistless strokes at
his enemies, who crowded and encumbered themselves to
have each the glory of slaying him. ' Save that brave fel-
low,' was the unregarded cry of some officers. Golice
Macbane was cut to pieces, and thirteen of his enemies lay
dead around him.

5201

CHARLIE STEWART.

The following affecting heroic verse con-
cludes all the Jacobite songs of merit that could
be collected. '

# * #

O dreary laneliness is now

'Mang ruin'd hamlets smoking,
Yet the new-made widow sits an' sings

While her sweet babe she's rocking.
' On Darien think, on dowie Glencoe,

On Murray, traitor coward !
On Cumberland's blood-blushing hands,

And think on Charlie Stewart!'

1 These songs, with the exception of one or two pieces,
have been taken down from recitation chiefly of Catholic
families, in Nithsdale and Galloway, by whom they were
preserved and communicated with an enthusiasm propor-
tioned to their attachment to the cause. The reader may refer
to Ritson's two volumes of Scottish Songs and Ballads, in
which he will find a selection of Jacobite songs from copies
already printed, which, the Editor conceives, will nearly
complete the collection.

SONGS

OF

THE NITHSDALE AND GALLOWAY
PEASANTRY.

CLASS IV.

(old ballads AND FRAGMENTS.)

205

OLD BALLADS AND FRAGMENTS.

WE WERE SISTERS, WE WERE
SEVEN.

This curious legend is one among a conside-
rable number which were copied from the re-
cital of a peasant-woman of Galloway, upwards
of ninety years of age. They were all evidently
productions of a very remote date, and, what-
ever might be their poetical beauties, were so
involved in obscurity as to render any attempt
at illustration useless. This tale was preserved
as a specimen of the rest, being not only the
clearest in point of style, but possessing a cha-
racter of originality which cannot fail to inte-
rest the reader. Though not strictly what may
be called a fairy tale, it is narrated in a similar

206

way. The transitions arc abrupt, yet artfully
managed, so as to omit no circumstance of the
story which the imagination of the reader may
not naturally supply. The singular character
of Billie Blin' (the Scotch Brownie, and the
lubbar fiend of Milton) gives the whole an air
of the marvellous, independently of the mystic
chair, on which the principal catastrophe of
the story turns.

In the third volume of Mr. Scott's 'Border
Minstrelsy' there is a ballad called Cospatrick,
founded on three more imperfect readings of
this ancient fragment, interspersed with some
patches of modern imitation. The entire piece
is not so long as the present copy, and the sup-
plementary part but ill accords with the rude
simplicity of the original. It is like the intro-
duction of modern masonry to supply the di-
lapidations of a Gothic ruin; the style of ar-
chitecture is uniform, but the freshness and
polish of the materials destroy the effect of the
ancient structure, and it can no longer be con
templated as a genuine relique of past ages.

There are many incongruities in Mr. Scott's

207

copy, which it is strange that so able an anti-
quary could have let pass. For example :

' When bells were rung, and mass was said,
And a' men unto bed were gane.'

In the Romish service we never hear of mass
being said in the evening, but vespers, as in
the original here given. Mr. Scott also omits
that interesting personage the 'Billie Blin,'
and awkwardly supplies the loss by making the
bed, blanket, and sheets speak, which is an out-
rage on the consistency even of a fairy tale.

WE WERE SISTERS, WE WERE SEVEN.

We were sisters, we were seven,

We were the fairest under heaven,

And it was a' our seven-years' wark

To sew our lather's seven sarks;

And whan our seven years' wark was done

We laid it. out upo' the green :

208

We coost the lotties™ us amang

Wha wad to the greenwood gang,

To pu' the lily but and the rose

To strew witha' our sisters' bowers.

I was youngest, my weer was hardest,

And to the green-wood I bud n gae,

There I met a handsome childe,

High-coled stockings and laigh-coled shoon,

He bore him like a king's son;

An' was I weel or was I wae,

He keepit me a' the simmer-day,

An' though I for my hame gaun sich,

He keepit me a' the simmer-night;

He gae to me a gay gold ring,

And bade me keep it aboon a' thing.

He gae to me a cuttie knife,

And bade me keep it as my life.

Three lauchters o' his yellow hair,

For fear we wad ne'er meet mair.

# # #

First blew the sweet, the simmer-wind,
Then autumn wi' her breath sae kind,

m Lots. " Must.

209

Before that e'er the guid knight came
The tokens of his luve to claim.
Then fell the brown an' yellow leaf
Afore the knight o' luve shawed prief ;
Three morns the winter's rime did fa',
When loud at our yett my luve did ca'-
' Ye hae daughters, ye hae seven,
Ye hae the fairest under heaven ;
I am the lord o' lands wide,
Ane o' them maun be my bride —
I am lord of a' baronie,
Ane o' them maun lie wi' me —
O cherry lips are sweet to prce,
A rosie check's meet for the ee;
Lang brown locks a heart can bind,
Bonny black een in luve are kind;
Sma' white arms for elasping's meet,
Whan laid atween the bridal-sheets;
A kindlie heart is best of a',
An' debonnairest in the ha'.
Ane by ane thae things arc sweet,
Ane by ane in luve they're meet —
But when they a' in ae maid bide,
She is fittest for a bride —
v

210

Sae be it weel or be it wae,
The youngest maun be my ladiej
Sae be it gude, sae be it meet,
She maun warm my bridal-sheet.

Little ken'd he, whan aff he rode,

I was his token'd luve in the wood;

Or when he gied me the wedding-token,

He was sealing the vows he thought were broken.

First came a page on a milk-white steed,

Wi' golden trappings on his head,

A' gowden was the saddle lap,

And gowden was the page's cap;

Next there came shippes three,

To carry a' my bridal-fee —

Gowd were the beaks, the sails were silk,

Wrought wi' maids' hands like milk;

They came toom and light to me,

But heavie went they waie frae me.

They were IV o' baken bread,

They were fV of wine sae red —

jVly dowry went a' by the sea,

But I gaed by the greenwode tree;

An' I sighed and made great mane,

211

As thro' the green wode we rade our lane;

An' I ay siched an' wiped my ee,

That e'er the greenwode I did see. —

' Is there water in your glove,

Or win' into your shoe?

O am I o'er low a foot-page,

To rin by you ladie ! '

' O there's nae water in my glove,

Nor win' into my shoe,

But I am maning for my mither,

Wha's far awa frae me.'

# # #

' Gin ye be a maiden fair,

Meikle gude ye will get there,

If ye be a maiden but,"

Meikle sorrow will ye get; —

For seven kings' daughters he hath wedded,

But never wi' ane o' them has bedded;

He euts the breasts frae their breast-bane,

An sends them back unto their dame.

lie sets their backs unto the saddle,

An' sends them back unto their lather:

But be ye maiden or be ye nane,

" i. e. li you arc not a maid

212

To the gowden chair ye draw right soon ;
But be ye leman or be ye maiden,
Sit nae down till ye be bidden.'

Was she maiden, or was she nane,
To the gowden chair she drew right soon.
Was she leman, or was she maiden,
She sat down ere she was bidden.

Out then spake the Lord's mother,
Says, ' This is not a maiden fair;
In that chair nae leal maiden
E'er sits down till they be bidden.'
The Billie BUn'0 then outspake he,
As he stood by the fair ladie;
'The bonnie May is tired wi' riding,
Gaur'd her sit down ere she was bidden/

But on her waiting-maid she ca'd,
i Fair ladie, what's your will wi' me?'
O ye maun gie yere maidenheid,
This night to an unco' lord for me.
* I hae been east, I hae been west,

0 See Appendix.

213

I hae been far beyond the sea ,
But ay by greenwode, or by bower,
I hae keepit my virginitie.
But will it for my ladie plead,

I'll gie't this night to an unco lord/

# * *

When bells were rung, an' vespers sung,
An' men in sleep were locked soun',
Childe Branton and the waitinG; maid
Into the bridal bed were laid.

0 lie thee down, my fair ladie,
Here are a' things meet for thee;
Here's a bolster for yere head,

Here is sheets an' comelie weids.

# # #

' Now tell to me, ye Billie Blin',

If this fair dame be a leal maiden?'

' I wat she is as leal a wight

As the moon shines on in a simmer-night;

1 wat she is as leal a May,

As the sun shines on in a simmer-day.
But your bonnie bride's in her bower,
Dreeing the mither's trying hour.'

214

Then out o' his bridal bed he sprang,
An' into his mither's bower he ran :
' O mither kind, O mither dear,
This is nae a maiden fair;
The maiden I took to my bride,
Has a bairn atween her sides.
The maiden I took to my bower,
Is dreeing the mither's trying hour.'

Then to the chamber his mother flew,

And to the wa' the door she threw;

She stapt at neither bolt nor ban',

Till to that ladie's bed she wan.

Says ' Ladie fair, sae meek an' mild,

Wha is the father o' yere child ?'

' O mither dear,' said that ladie,

' I canna tell gif I sud die,

We were sisters, we were seven,

We were the fairest under heaven;

And it was a' our seven years' wark,

To sew our father's seven sarks.

And whan our seven years wark was done

We laid it out upon the green.

Q\5

We coost the lotties us amang,

Wha wad to the green wode gang;

To pu' the lily but an' the rose,

To strew vvitha' our sisters' bowers.

I was youngest, my weer was hardest,

And to the greenwode I bu? gae.

There I met a handsome childe

Wi'laigh-coled stockings and high-coled shoon,

He seemed to be some king's son;

And was I weel or was I wae,

He keepit me a' the simmer-day;

Though for my hanie gaun I oft sicht,

He keepit me a' the simmer-night;

He gae to me a gay gold-ring, ■

An' bade me keep it aboon a' thing;

Three lauchters o' his yellow hair,

For fear that we sulci ne'er meet mail*.

O mither, if ye'll believe nae me,

Break up the coffer an' there ye'll see.'

An ay she coost an ay she flang,

Till her ain gowd-ring came in her hand;

i' Must.

216

And scarce aught i' the coffer she left,

Till she gat the knife wi' the siller-heft;

Three lauchters o' his yellow hair,

Knotted wi' ribbons dink and rare :

She cried to her son ' whare is the ring

Your father gave me at our wooing,

An* I gae you at your hunting ?

What did ye wi' the cuttie-knife,

I bade ye keep it as yere life? '

' O haud yere tongue, my mither dear,

I gae them to a lady fair;

I wad gie a' my lands and rents,

I had that ladie within my brents ;

I wad gie a' my lands an' towers,

I had that ladie within my bowers.'

' Keep still yere lands, keep still yere rents,

Ye hae that ladie within yere brents;

Keep still }ere lands, keep still yere towers,

Ye hae that lady within your bowers.'

Then to his ladie fast ran he,
An' low he kneeled on his knee;
' O tauk ye up my son,' said he,
* An', mither, tent my fair ladie;

217

O wash him purely i' the milk,
And lay him saftly in the silk ;
An' ye maun bed her very soft,
For J maun kiss her wondrous oft.'

It was weel written on his breast bane,
Childe Branton was the father's name;
It was weel written on his right hand,
He was the heir o' his daddie's land.

218

TWO VERSES OF LOGAN BRAES.

(FROM MRS. COPLAND.)

It was nae for want, it was nae for wae,

That he left me on the Logan brae:

There was lint in the club, and maut in the mill,

There was bear in the trough and corn in the kill.

# # #

The wind it was lowne, the larks had left the sky,

The bats were a' flown, the herds had left the kye;

The sheep were a' faulded, nought was muvin but
the moon,

As we wander'd through the rye to the lang yel-
low broom.

219

O WHO IS THIS UNDER MY WINDOW ?

This old song is taken down from the singing
of Martha Crosbie, from whose recitation
Burns wrote down the song of ' The Wau-
krife Minnie.7

It has a fine affecting tune, and is much
sung by the young girls of Nithsdale. Burns
has certainly imitated the last verse of it in his
' Red, red Rose.'

' O who is this under my window?

O who is this that troubles me?'
' O it is ane wha is broken hearted,

Complaining to his God o' thee.'

' O a^k your heart, my bonnie Mary,
O ask your heart gif it minds o' me!

4 Ye were a drap o' the dearest bluid in't,
Sac hum as ye were true to me.'

220

' If e'er the moon saw ye in my arms, love,
If e'er the light dawned in my ee,

I hae been doubly fause to heaven,
But ne'er ae moment fause to thee.

' My father ca'd me to his chamber,

Wi' lowin' anger in his ee;
Gae put that traitor frae thy bosom,

Or never mair set thy ee on me.

'I hae wooed lang love — I hae loved kin' love,
An' monie a peril I've braved for thee ;

I've traitor been to monie a ane love,
But ne'er a traitor nor fause to thee.

' My mither sits hie in her chamber,
Wi' saute tears happin' frae her ee ;

O he wha turns his back on heaven,
O he maun ay be fause to thee! '

' Gang up, sweet May, to thy ladie mother,
An' dight the saute tears frae her ee;

Tell her I've turned my face to heaven,
Ye hae been heaven owre lansr to me ! '

221

O up she rose, and away she goes,
Into her true love's arms to fa';

But ere the bolts and the bars she loosed,
Her true love was fled awa.

' O whare's he gane whom I lo'e best,

And has left me here for to sigh an' mane;

O I will search the hale world over,
'Till my true love I find again.

' The seas shall grow wi' harvests yellow,
The mountains melt down wi' the sun;

The labouring man shall forget his labour,
The blackbird shall not sing but mourn,

If ever I prove fause to my love,
Till once I see if lie return.'

222

LADY MARGERIE.

With the exception of a few unconnected
fragments, nothing now remains of this old
ballad. The reader, however, may be pleased
to peruse the legend as recorded by the tra-
ditions of Galloway.

Lady Margerie, the heroine of the song, was
beloved by two brothers, sons of a neighbour-
ing Baron. The suit of the youngest, whose
name was Henry, being rejected, he, by inge-
niously imitating his brother's writing, ob-
tained an interview in an adjacent wood, and
warmly brought his fair one to regard his ten-
derness with less indifference. The language
of the youth in this instance, though homely,
is pathetically expressive:

' D' ye mind, d' ye mind, Lady Margerie,
When we handed round the beer ;
Seven times I fainted for your sake,
And you never dropt a tear.

223

D* ye mind, d" ye mind, Lady Margerie,

When we handed round the wine ;
Seven times I fainted for your sake,

And you never fainted once for mine.'

She expostulated with him on the impropriety
of bringing her into an unfrequented place for
the purpose of winning affections, which, she
observed, were not hers to bestow. But find-
ing him determined to have either a favourable
answer or a peremptory refusal, she frankly
confessed that she was with child by his brother.
Frantic at the loss of all he loved and valued,
the young man drew his sword, and, with the
characteristic barbarity of those rude times,
cruelly murdered the lady.

The following stanza presents an image too
horrible to be contemplated, were it not imme-
diately coupled with a wildly sublime thought:

' And he's ta'en the baby out of her womb,
And thrown it upon a thorn:
I,et the wind blow east, let I he wind blow west,
The cradle will rock its lone.'

224

The horrid deed was no sooner done, than
the elder brother was apprised of it as he pur-
sued the boar in a neighbouring forest; for it
would seem that supernatural agency was more
frequent in those times than at present. The
young hunter was following his game with ar-
dour, cheering his dogs and poising his lance,
ready to engage the monster when at bay :

' But when brother Henry's cruel brand
Had done the bloody deed,
The silver-buttons flew off his coat,
And his nose began to bleed.' i

Astonished at this singular phenomenon, he
immediately flew to the bower of his mistress,
where a page informed him she was gone to
the ' silver wood,' agreeably to his desire.
Thither he spurred his horse, and meeting
Henry with his bloody sword still in his hand,

1 The circumstances mentioned in the two last lines of
this verse are believed by the vulgar in Scotland to be pre-
ternatural signs to announce the commission of murder.

225

inquired what he had been killing. The other
replied :

'O I have been killing in the silver wood
What will breed mickle woe;
O I have been killing in the silver wood
A dawdy and a doe.'

A mutual explanation took place, and Henry
fell by the sword of his unhappy brother.
How much truth may be in this legend is un-
certain, time having so thoroughly effaced
every vestige of the supposed savage transac-
tion, that even the finger of tradition points
not to the plaee where the tragedy was acted.
Some of the old people of Galloway still retain
the thread of the storv, with the few wild de-
tached stanzas here presented to the reader.

226

YOUNG AIRLY.

There are several copies of this Song, one of
which begins thus —

' The great Argyle raised ten thousand men
E'er the sun was waukening earlie;
And he marched them down by the back o' Dunkel',
Bade them fire on the bonnie house o' Airlie.'

The following appears to be an older copy,
and has finer touches of poetic merit.

It fell in about the Martinmas time,

An' the leaves were fa'ing early,
That great Argyle an' a' his men came

To plunder the bonnie House o' Airlj.

* Come down and kiss me, Ladie Ogilvie,

Come down an' kiss me early;
Come down an' kiss me, Ladie Ogilvie,

Or there's be nae a stanning stane o' Airly.'

227

* I winna kiss thee, great Argyle,

At night or morning early;
I winna kiss thee, thou fause, fause lord,

If there should na be a stanning stane o'

Airly.

But take me by the milk white hand,

An' lead me down right hoolie;
An' set me in a dowie, dowie glen,

That I mauna see the fall o' Airly.' —

He has ta'en her by the shouther blade,

An' thurst her down afore him,
Syne set her upon a bonnie knowe tap,

Bad her look at Airly fa'ing.

# # *

* Haste! bring to me a cup o' gude wine,

As red as ony cherrie;
I'll tank the cup, an' sip it up,

Here's a health to bonnie Prince Charlie!

I hae born me eleven braw sons,
The youngest ne'er saw his daddie;

228

An' if I had to bear them a' again,

They should a' gang alang wi' Charlie !

But if my gude Lord were here this night,

As he's awa wi' Charlie;
The great Argyle and a' his men,

Durst na enter the bonnie House o' Airly

Were my gude lord but here this day,

As he's awa wi' Charlie;
The dearest blude o' a' thy kin',

Wad sloken the lowe o' Airly.

229

THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY.

Tradition is yet rich with the fame of this be-
witching Mermaid: and many of the good old
folks have held most edifying and instructing
communion with her by her favourite moon-
light hanks and eddyed nooks of streams. — She
Avas wont to treasure their minds with her ce-
le-tial knowledge of household economy, and
would give receipts to make heavenly salve to
heal the untimely touch of disease. A charm-
ing young girl, whom consumption had brought
to the brink of the grave, was lamented by her
lover. In a vein ot renovating sweetness the
good Mermaid sung to him —

' Wa I vc let the bonnie May die i' yere hand,
An' the mugwort flowering i' the land'

lie cropped and pressed the flower tops,
and administered the juice to hi> fair mistress,

230

who arose and blessed her bestower for the re-
turn of health.

The Mermaid's favourite haunts and couches
were along the shores of the Nith and Orr, and
on the edge of the Solway sea, which adjoins
the mouths of those waters. Her beauty was
such that man could not behold her face, but
his heart was fired with unquenchable love.
' Her long hair of burning gold,' through the
wiling links of which appeared her white bosom
and shoulders, were her favourite care; and
she is always represented by tradition with one
hand shedding her locks, and with the other
combing them.

Tradition tells, that this world is an outer
husk or shell, which encloses a kernel of most
rare abode, where dwell the Mermaids of popu-
lar belief. According to Lowland mythology,
they are a race of goddesses, corrupted with
earthly passions — their visits to the world,
' though few and far between,' are spoken of
and remembered with awe — their affections
were bestowed on men of exalted virtue and
rare endowments of person and parts. They

231

wooed in such a strain of syren eloquence that
all hearts were fettered by the witcheries of
love. When their celestial voice dropt on the
ear, every other faculty was enthralled. They
caught the beloved object in their embrace,
and laid him on a couch, where mortal eyes
might search in vain into the rites of such ro-
mantic and mysterious wedlock.

Though possessed of the most soft and gra-
cious qualities, yet when a serious premeditated
indignity was offered them, they were imme-
diately awakened to revenge. A devout farm
dame, in the time of the last persecution, was
Troubled in spirit at the wonted return of this
heathenish visitant. A deep and beautiful pool,
formed in the mouth of Dalbeattie burn, by
the eddy of Orr Water, was a beloved residence
of the Mermaid of Galloway. ' [' the first
come o' the moon' she would seat herself on a
smooth block of granite, on die brink of the
pool, comb her golden links of hair, and de-
liver her healing oracles. The good woman,
in ;t frenzy of religious zeal, with her Bible in
her hand, had the temerity to tumble this

232

ancient chair into the bottom of the pool.
The next morning her only child was found
dead in its cradle, and a voice from the pool
was often heard at day-close, by the distracted
mother:

' Ye may look i' yere toom cradle,
And I'll look to my stanej
And meikle we'll think, and meikle we'll look,
But words we'll ne'er hae nane ! '

All the noxious weeds and filth that could
be collected, were thrown into the pool until
the stream was polluted, and the Mermaid de-
parted, leaving' a curse of barrenness on the
house, which all the neighbours for several
miles around, arc ready to certify has been
faithfully fulfilled.

William Maxwell, Esq. of Cowehill, is the
bridegroom ' Willie' of this romance. Accord-
in u; to popular history, he was nephew to the
* Lily of Nithsdale,' heroine of the sublime
song 'She's gane to dwall in Heaven.'

Cowehill is beautifully situated on the banks

233

of the river Nith, five miles above Dumfries,
surrounded with groves of oak, and plantation

trees, and is now the seat of Johnstone,

Esq.

234

THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY.

(from tradition.)

There's a maid has sat o' the green merse side

Thae ten lang years and mair;
An' every first night o' the new moon

She kames her yellow hair.

An.' ay while she sheds the yellow burning gowd,

Fu' sweet she sings an' hie,
Till the fairest bird that wooes the green wood,

Is charm 'd wi' her melodie.

But wha e'er listens to that sweet sang,

Or gangs the fair dame te;r
Ne'er hears the sang o' the lark again,

Nor waukens an earthlie ee.

It fell in about the sweet simmer month,

I' the first come o' the moon,
That she sat o' the tap of a sea-weed rock,

A-kaming her silk-locks down.

'To.

9,35

Her kame was o' the whitely pearl,

Her hand like new-won milk;
Her breasts were a' o' the snawy curd,

In a net o' sea-green silk.

She kained her locks owre her white shoulders,

A fleece baith bonnv and lang:
An' ilka ringlet she shed frae her brows,

She raised a lightsome sans;.

I' the very first lilt o' that sweet sang,

The birds f'orhood3 their young;
An' they flew i' the gate o' the gray howlet,

To listen the sweet maiden.

V the second lilt o' that sweet sang,

Of sweetness it was sae f'u';
The tod lap up owre our f'auld-dyke,

And (lighted his red-wat niou.

I' the very third lilt o' that sweet sang,

Red lowed the new-woke moon;
The stars drapped blude on the yellow gowan tap,

Sax miles roun' that maiden.

k Fur hood t forsook.

236

' I haedwalt on the Kith,' quo' the young Cowehill,

' Thae twenty years an' three,
But the sweetest sang e'er brake frae a lip,

Comes thro' the greenwood to me.

O is it a voice frae twa earthlie lips,

Whilk makes sic melodic?
It wad wvlc11 the lark frae the morninsr lilt,

And weel may it wyle me?'

' 1 dreamed a dreary thing, master,

Whilk I am rad ye rede;
I dreamed ye kissed a pair o' sweet lips,

That d rapped o' red heart's-blude.'

' Come hand my steed, ye little foot-page,

Shod wi' the red gowd roun';
Till I kiss the lips whilk sing sae sweet,'

An' lightlie lap he down.

' l\is< nae the singer's lips, master,
• ' Kiss nae the singer's chin;
Touch nae her hand.' quo' the little foot-page,
4 Ifskaithless hanic ye'd win.

u Jfylc, entice.

237

O wha will sir on yere tooni saddle,

0 wha will hruik yere gluve;

An wha will t'aukl yere cried x bride,
I' the kindlie clasps o' luve?'

He took a(f his hat, a' gowd i' the rim,

Knot wi' a siller ban';
He seemed a' in lowe> wi' his gowd raiment,

As thro' the green wood he ran.

' The simmer-dew fa's satt, fair maid,

Ancath the siller moon ;
But eerie is thy seat i' the rock,

Washed wi' the white sea laein.

Come wash me wi' thy liiie white hand,

Below and "boon tiie knee ;
An' I'll k;ime thae links o' yellow burning gowd,

A boon th v bonnic blue ee.

How rosie tire thy parting lips,

1 low lilie-white thy ikin,
An' w eel I wat thae kissing ecu

\\ ad tempt a saint to sin.'

Lrlid, betrothed. > la luicc, in a blaze.

238

* Tak aff thae bars an' bobs o' gowd,
Wi' thy gared doublet fine;

An' thraw me aff thy green mantle,
Leafed wi' the siller twine.

An' a' in courtesie fair knight,

A maiden's mind to win,
The gowd lacing o' thy green weeds,

Wad harm her lilie skin.'

Syne coost he aff his green mantle,
Hemm'd wi' the red gowd roun';

His costly doublet coost he aff,
Wi' red gowd flow'red down.

' Now ye maun kame my yellow hair,

Down wi' my pearlie kame;
Then rowe me in thy green mantle,

An' tauk me maiden hame.'

' But first come tauk me 'neath the chin,
An' syne come kiss my cheek ;

An' spread my hanks o' wat'ry hair,
I' the new-moon beam to dreep.'

239

Sae first he kissed her dimpled chin,

Syne kissed her rosie cheek ;
And lang he wooed her willin' lips,

Like hether-hinnie sweet!

' O! if ye'll come to the honnie Cowehill,

'Mang primrose hanks to woo,
I'll wash thee ilk day i' the new milked milk,

An' bind wi' gowd yere brow.

' An' a' for a drink o' the clear water

Ye'se hae the rosie wine,
An' a' lor the water white lilie,

Ye'se hae these arms o' mine.'

' But what '11 she say, yere honnie young bride

Busked wi' the siller fine;
Whan the rich kisses ye kept for her lips,

Are left wi' vows on mine?'

lie took his lips frae her red-rose mou',

His arm frae her waist sae sraa';
' Sweet maiden, I'm in brydal speed,

It's time I were awa.'

240

* O gic me a token o' luve, sweet May,

A leal luve token true;'
She crapped a lock o' yellow gowden hair,

An' knotted it roun' his brow.

' O tie nae it sae strait, sweet May,
But \vi' hive's rose-knot kynde;

My head is fu' o' burning pain,
O salt ye maun it bynde.'

His skin turned a' o' the red-rose hue,

Wi' draps o' bludie sweat;
An' he laid his head 'mang the water lilies,

' Sweet maiden, I maun sleep.'

She tyed ae link o' her wat yellow hair,

A boon his burning bree;
Amang bis curling haffet locks

She knotted knurles three.

She weaved owre his brow the white lilie,
Wi' witch-knots inae than nine;

< Gif'ye were seven times bride-groom owre,
This night ye shall be mine.'

241

O twice he turned his sinking head,

An' twice he lifted his ee;
O twice lie sought to lift the links

Were knotted owre his bree.^

i Arise, sweet knight, yere young bride waits,

An' doubts her ale will sowre;
An' wistly looks at the lilie white sheets,

Down spread in ladie-bowre.'

An' she has prennedr the broidered silk,

About her white hause bane;
Her princely petticoat is on,

VVi' gowd can stan' its lane.

He faintlie, slowlie, turn'd his cheek,

And faintly lift his ee,
And he strave to lowse the witching bunds

A boon his burning brce.

Then took she up his green mantle

Of lowing gowd the hem;
Then took she up his silken cap.

Rich u i' a siller stem ;

u lira', the brow. ' Prenm'd, pinned

K

242

An' she threw them wi' her lilie hand
Amang the white sea faem.

She took the bride ring frae his finger

An' threw it in the sea;
' That hand shall mense* nae ither ring

But wi' the will o' me.'

She faulded him i' her lilie arms,

An' left her pearlie kame;
His fleecy locks trailed ovvre the sand

As she took the white sea-faem.

First raise the star out owre the hill,

An' niest the lovelier moon ;
While the beauteous bride o' Gallowa'

Looked for her blythe bride-groom.

Lythlie she sang while the new-moon raise,

Blythe as a young brydc May,
Whan the new-moon lights her lamp o' luve,

An' blinks the bryde away.

* Nithsdale, thou art a gay garden,
Wi' monie a winsome flower;

5 To ?ne?ise, to grace.

243

But the princeliest rose o' that garden
Maun blossom in my bower.

An' I will kepp* the drapping dew

Frae my red rose's tap,
An' the balmy blobs o' ilka leaf,

I'll kepp them drap by drap.
An' I will wash my white bosom

A' wi' this heavenly sap.'

An' ay she sewed her silken snood,

An sung a brydal sang;
But aft the tears drapt frae her ec,

Afore the gray morn cam.

The sun lowed ruddie 'inang the dew,
Sue thick on bank and tree;

The plow-boy whistled at his darg, "
The milk-inav answered hie;

1 In kepp, to cratch, to receive in the act of falling. Thus
Burns :

' Mourn, Soring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear.'

u Al /its dar%, at his work

244

But the lovelie bride o' Gallowa'
Sat wi' a wat-shodx ee.

Ilk breath o' wind 'mang the forest leaves
She heard the bridegroom's tongue,

And she heard the brydal-coming lilt
In every bird which sung.

She sat high on the tap towre stane,

Nae waiting May was there;
She lowsed the gowd busk frae her breast,

The kame frae 'mang her hair;
She wiped the tear-blobs frae her ee,

An' looked lang and sair !

First sang to her the blythe wee bird,
Frae aff the hawthorn green;

x ' Wat-shod' is a phrase peculiar to Dumfrieshire and
Galloway. ' Bless the bairn, its een's wat-skod,' is the
mother's cry when she finds her child's eyes brimful of
tears. Among the peasantry it has an endearing and fa-
miliar sweetness — perhaps from frequent usage, and being
a traditional phrase.

245

' Loose out the love curls frae yere hair,
Ye plaited sae weel yestreen.'

An' the spreckled woodlark frae 'mang the clouds

O' heaven came singing down ;
' Tauk out the bride-knots frae yere hair

An' let thae lang locks down.'

' Come, bydc wi' me, ye pair o' sweet birds,

Come down an' byde wi' me;
Ye sail peckle o' the bread an' drink o' the wine,

An gowd yere cage sail be.'

She laid the bride-cake 'neath her head,

An' syne below her feet;
An' laid her down 'tween the lilie-white sheets,

An' soundlie did she sleep!

It was i' the mid-hour o' the night,

Her siller-bell did ring;
An' soun't as if nae eartlilie hand

Had pou'd the silken string.

There was a cheek touch'd that ladye's,
Cauld as the marble stanc;

246

An' a hand cauld as the drifting snaw
Was laid on her breast-bane.

' O cauld is thy hand, my dear Willie,
O cauld, cauld is thy cheek;

An' wring thae locks o' yellow hair,
Frae which the cauld draps dreep.'

' O seek anither bridegroom, Marie,
On thae bosom-faulds to sleep;

My bride is the yellow water lilie,
Its leaves my brydal sheet!'

This romantic and affecting ballad was transmitted
to the Editor by Jean Walker, a young girl of Gallo-
way, who preserved the songs ' She's gane to dwall
in Heaven,' ' Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie/
' The Pawkie Loon the Miller,' and ' Young Der-
wentwater.' The following extract from a note ac-
companying it may be an illustrative specimen of the
language and ideas of Scottish peasants.

' TO MR. CROMEK.

***** A weed turns a flower when its set in a
garden. Will these Songs be better or bonnier in

247

print ? I enclose you a flower new pou'd frae the banks
of blythe Cowehill. Il has long grown almost unkend
of. Gentility disnae pou' a flower that blumes i' the
fields; — it is trampled on for a weed when its no in a
flower-pot. I see you smiling at the witching lilts of
the sweet-singing Mermaid. Well, come again to
Galloway. Sit down i' the gloaming dewfall on the
green merse side, amang the flowers ; and if a pair of
lil ie arms, and twa kissing lips, and witching een,
forbye the sweet movement of a honey dropping
tongue, winna gaurye believe in the lilting glamour of
the Mermaid, ye may gang back to England, singing —
' Praise be blest ! ' How will your old fashioned taste,
and the new fangledness of the public's agree about
tliese old Songs? — But tell me, can a song become old
when the ideas and imagery it contains are drawn from
nature ? While gowans grow on our braes, and lilies
on our burn-banks, so long will natural imagery and
natural sentiment flourish green in song.

' 1 am perhaps too partial to these old Songs ; — It is
because duy recal the memory of parental endearments:
the posies of our fathers and our mothers I hold it not
seemly for a daughter to let wither.

That the peasantry of Scotland possess a greater
portion of natural taste and information than the vulgar

248

class of any other nation is considered paradoxical by
their unbelieving brethren on this side the Tweed.
Were evidence required to establish this fact, a Scottish
peasant would exclaim — ' Where are your Ballads and
Songs, the beauteous fugitives of neglected or unknown
rustic bards? Where are your sacred reliques of poetic
devotion with which every Scotchman's heart is filled ? —
the plaint of despair, the uplifting raptures of love, or
the heart-warming lament of domestic misfortune ?
With us they live ; with you they have never existed,
or have perished ! '

A P P E N D I X.

251

APPENDIX,

SCOTTISH GAMES (A.) p. 10.

' ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND.'

This boyish amusement seems to have had
its origin from the more deadly games which
our forefathers played upon the borders. The
hoys cast lots till they are equally divided, and
a king is chosen as leader of cither party. The
boundary of the kingdoms is then fixed, and
marked out with small wooden pins, and a war-
den is placed by each party to keep those marks
unmoved. A small ring is then described, at
an hundred paces distance from the boundary;
this is His Majesty's capital, where his trea-
sure, represented by the boys' hats or coats, is
deposited.

War being declared, every eye is on the
alert; — the parties marshal upon the borders,
make feints of attack, while some of the boldest

252

attempt to bear away His Majesty's trea-
sure. If the intruder be caught on the hos-
tile ground he is taend, that is, clapped
three times on the head, which makes him a
prisoner. He is set down within the circle of
the capital, nor dares to forfeit his pass of
honour unless relieved by some of his country-
men. This retaking is accomplished by touch-
ing the party with the hand, he gets free, and
tries to accomplish his retreat. To relieve a
prisoner, and pillage with impunity, is reckoned
a notable exploit.

The game is finished when those of one king-
dom carry off the other's bonnets and coats,
keeping their own secure. This curious game
somewhat resembles the pilfering Border war-
fare of old, and may be considered an excel-
lent satire on the struggles of nations for petty
rivers, and paltry dukedoms.

'the outs and the ins.'

This game is peculiar to the low countries
of Scotland, and is very common in JSithsdale
and Galloway.

It seems to be formed from the mutability

253

of Border inheritance, and is the ' Debateable
Land' which so often caused the English bows
and the Scottish broad swords to be drawn.
Our forefathers seem to have directed the
sports of their children to the practice of
stratagem and plunder; and this remnant of
other times was the miniature of deadlier
games, and disciplined youth to the bloody
play which awaited them in manhood. A circle
is drawn and neatly divided into six parts; on
one of these is cut another circle of ten feet
diameter, — this is called the ' Ins,' and the
large circle is called the ' Outs.' A stone, or
branch of a tree, is set up at these marks in
the large circle; — these are termed ' Dools.'
The boys divide in equal numbers and cast lots
for the Ins, which is the seat of glory and
heroism. The fortunate party all step into the
Ins, and the other party run to the Outs; a
boy then steps forth from either side. To be-
gin the game, — the boy in the Outs throws a
ball of yarn covered with leather or party-
coloured thread so as gently to light on the
other's hand, who stands with it open, and
his arm in a swinging attitude, in order to
strike the hall. This he does with threat dex-

254

ferity, avoiding the outer party, and prevent-*
ing them from catching it as it flies: which
should one of them catch loses the Ins. The
boy, on striking away the ball, runs to the first
dool, and touches it with his foot. One of
his fellows stands forth in the Ins, striking
back the ball, while his partner gains another
dool, and so on till he recovers the Ins. The
other one who struck away the ball in his
absence runs the same career. But should the
ball be caught, or while he is running to reach
his dool, should he be struck by the ball from
the outer party, the Ins are lost, and the enemy
rushes in to the evacuated dominions, and
again the game goes on.

A more youthful game than this, but evi-
dently of the same origin, is common, I believe,
on the borders of either kingdom, called ' Keep
the Castle,' by the English, and < Haud the
Bowerique/ by the Scotch. One boy takes
possession of a little knowe top, or hillock, from
which his fellows attempt to dislodge him.
Whenever he is pushed off his conqueror suc-
ceeds, and this is repeated until one of them,
reigns king beyond the power of dethroning.

255
APPENDIX (B.) p. 19.

The following affecting narrative is taken
from the life of Peclen, and though it has had a
verv extensive circulation, from the circum-
stance of its being quoted in the notes to Mr.
Grahame's popular poem of 'the Sabbath,' yet
it exemplifies so strongly the severe persecu-
tions which the Presbyterians endured, that no
apology need be given for its insertion in this
place.

' One morning, between five and six hours,
John Brown, having performed tlte worship of
God in his family, was going with a spade in
his hand to make ready some peat-ground.
The mist being very dark, he knew not till the
bloody Claverhouse compassed him with three
troops of horse, brought him to his house, and
there examined him; who, though he was a
man of stammering speech, vet answered him
distinctly and solidly; which made Claverhouse
to examine those whom lie had taken to be his
guides through the muirs, if they had heard
bim preach? They answered ' No, no, he was
ne\er a preacher.' He said, ' If he has never

256

preached, meikle has he prayed in his time:'
He said to John, 'Go to your prayers, for you
shall immediately die.' When he was praying
Claverhouse interrupted him three times: one
time that he stopped him he wa9 praying that
the Lord would spare a remnant, and not make
a full end in the day of his anger. Claverhouse
said, ' I gave you time to pray, and you are be-
gun to preach ;' he turned about on his knees,
and said, ' Sir, you know neither the nature of
praying nor preaching that calls this preach-
ing;' then continued, without confusion. When
ended, Claverhouse said, ' Take good night of
your wife and children.' His wife standing by
with her children in her arms that she had.
brought forth to him, and another child of his
first wife's, he came to her and said, ' Now,
' Marion, the day is come, that I told you would
come, when I first spake to you of marrying
me.' She said, l Indeed, John, I can willingly
part with you.' Then he said, ' This is all I
desire; I have no more to do but to die.' He
kissed his wife and bairns, and wished purchased
and promised blessings to be multiplied on
them, and his blessing. Claverhouse ordered

257

six soldiers to shoot him ; the most part of the
bullets came upon his head, which scattered his
brains upon the ground. Claverhouse said to
his wife, ' What thinkest thou or* thy husband
now, woman?' She said, ' I thought ever much
of him, and now as much as ever.' He said,
it were justice to lay thee beside him. She
said, ' If ye were permitted, I doubt not but
your cruelty would go that length; but how
will ye make answer for this morning's work.'
He said, ' To man I can be answerable; and
for (jod, I will take him in mine own hand.'
Claverhouse mounted his horse, and left her
with the corpse of her dead husband lying there ;
she set the bairn on the ground, and gathered
his brains, and tied up his head, and straighted
his body, and covered him with her plaid, and
sat down, and wept over him. It being a very
desart place, where never victual grew, and far
from neighbours, it was some time before any
friends came to her: the first that came was a
very fit hand, that old singular Christian woman,
in tlu.' Cuminerhead, named Elizabeth Menzies,
three miles distant, who had been tried with
the violent death of her husband ;it Pentland.

258

afterwards of two worthy sons, Thomas Weir,
who was killed at Drumclog, and David Steel,
who was suddenly shot afterwards when taken.
The said Marion Weir, sitting upon her hus-
band's grave, told me, that, before that, she
could see no blood but she was in danger to
faint, and yet she was helped to be a witness to
all this, without either fainting or confusion;
except when the shots were let off, her eyes
were dazzled. His corpse was buried at the
end of his house, where he was slain.

Peden's Life, p. 21.

APPENDIX (C.) p. 19.

' TAKING THE BEUK.'

To describe this sublime ceremony of devo-
tion to God, a picture of the Cottar's Ha', taken
from the more primitive times of rustic sim-
plicity, will be most expressive and effectual.

On entering a neat thatched cottage, when
past the partition orhallan, a wide, far project-
ing chimney piece, garnished with smoked meat,
met your eye. The fire, a good space removed
from the end wall, was placed against a large
whinstone, called the cat-hud. Behind this

259

was a bench stretching along the gabel, which,
on trysting nights, was occupied by the chil-
dren ; the best seat being courteously proffered
to strangers. The Cottar Sire was placed on
the left of the fire, removed from the bustle of
housewifery. — A settee of oak, antiquely carved
and strewn with favourite texts of scripture,
was the good man's seat, where he rested after
the day's fatigue, nursing and instructing his
children. His library shelf above him displayed
his folio Bible, covered with rough calf skin,
wherein were registered his children's names
and hour of birth; some histories of the old re-
forming worthies, (divines who waded through
the blood and peril of persecution) the sacred
books of his fathers lay carefully adjusted and
pretty much used: and the acts and deeds of
Scotland's saviour, Wallace, and the immortal
Bruce, were deemed worthy of holding a
place among the heroic divines who had won
the heavenly crown of martyrdom. Above these
were hung a broad sword and targe, the re-
mains of ancient warfare, which happily the
hand of peace had long forgot to wield. —
From the same pin depended the kirn-cut of

26'0

corn,* curiously braided and adorned with
ribbons. Beside him was his fowling-piece,
which, before the enaction of Game Laws,
supplied his family with venison and fowls in
their season. At the end of the lang-settle
was the window, whieh displayed a few panes
of glass and two oaken boards, that opened
like shutters, for the admission of air. On
the gudewife's side appeared her articles of
economy and thrift. A dresser, replenished
with pewter plates, with a large meal chest of
carved oak, extended along the side wall;
bunches of yarn hung from a loft or flooring,
made of small wood or ryse, spread across the
joisting, and covered with moor turf. The
walls,white with lime, were garnished with dairy
utensils (every Cottar almost having one or two
kye) At each side of the middle entry was a bed,
sometimes of very curious and ingenious work-
manship, being posted with oak, and lined
with barley straw, finely cleaned and inwoven

a The name sometimes given to the last handful of graia
tut down on the harvest field.

261

with thread ; these were remarkably warm and
much valued.

Family worship was performed every evening,
but on the sabbath morning it was attended
with peculiar solemnity. At that season all
the family, and frequently some of the neigh-
bours, presented themselves before the aged vil-
lage apostle. He seated himself on the lang-
settle, laying aside his bonnet and plaid. His
eldest child came submissively forward, and un-
clasping the Bible, placed it across his father's
knees. After a few minutes of religious silence,
be meekly lifts his eyes over his family to mark
if they are all around him, and decorous.
Opening the Bible he says — in a tone of
simple and holy meekness — ' Let us reverently
worship our God by singing the (eighth) Psalm."
He reads it aloud; then gives or recites line after
line, leading the tune himself. The Martyrs is
a chosen air, so called in honour of those men
who displayed a zeal worthy of the name, and
perished in the persecution. All the family join
in this exquisitely mournful tune till the sacred
Ming is finished. A selected portion of scripture
is then read from the sublime soarings of Isaiah.

2<S2

or the solemn morality of Job. As the divine
precepts of his Saviour arc the sacred rules by
which the good man shapes the conduct of his
children, Isaiah's fifty-third chapter, where the
coming of the Redeemer is foretold, is the
soul-lifting favourite of rustic devotion. It is
read with an exalted inspiration of voice, ac-
cordant with the subject. The family rise as
he clasps the book, fall down on their knees,
bowing their heads to the ground. The good
man, kneeling over his Bible, pours his prayer
to heaven in a strain of feelina; and fervent
eloquence. His severity of church discipline
relaxes in the warmth of his heart, — ' May our
swords become plowshares, and our spears
reaping hooks : — May all find grace before thee!'

There is not perhaps a more impressive scene
than a Scottish sabbath morn presents, when
the wind is low, the summer sun newly risen,
and all the flocks at browse by the waters and
by the woods: — how glorious then to listen to
the holy murmur of retired prayer, and the dis-
tant chaunt of the Cottarman's psalm spread-
ing from hamlet and village!

This noble scene has been painted in never-

263

fading colours by the vigorous and masterly
genius of Burns. It was a subject dear to his
heart ; — a parental scene. He has touched it
with the poetic inspiration of divine rapture,
and with the fidelity of truth itself.

' The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,

They, round the ingle, form a circle widej
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big /id -Bible, ance his father's pride :
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart hafFets wearing thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion with judicious care;
And ' Let us worship God ! ' he says, with solemn
air.'

APPENDIX (D.) p. 28.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE STOOL OF RE-
P E \ T A N C E .

Though this vile stool of repentance is suf-
ficiently familiar to the good people of Scot-
laud, yet some explanation of its uses may be
required by the English reader; and, as the
Editor considers himself pledged to give every

264

illustration he has been able to collect of Scot-
tish manners and customs, the following ac-
count will not be deemed misplaced.

When the disastrous and bloody struggle of
Scottish reformation was over, and the wretched
hovels of covenanting Calvinism rose among
the majestic ruins of Romish devotion, all that
escaped the wreck of original genius and pe-
culiar cast of character, was the ' Stool of Re-
pentance.'b It was an engine of terror well
suited to Knox's stern and rigorous discipline,

b There is a remark in. Burns's unpublished MS.
Journal of his excursion from Edinburgh to the Highlands,
not inapplicable to this subject. It is amusing to observe
how bitterly he vents his antipathies whenever an instance
of superstitious tyranny occurs, repugnant to liberal feel-
ings ; and it must have been highly diverting to witness his
soliloquy on the present occasion

' Linlithgow A pretty good old gothic

church — the infamous Stool of Repentance standing in the
old Romish way, on a lofty situation.

' What a poor, pimping business is a Presbyterian place
of worship! dirty, narrow, and squalid ; stuck in a corner
of old Popish grandeur such as Linlithgow, and much
more Melrose! — Ceremony and show, if judiciously
thrown in, are absolutely necessary for the bulk of man-
kind, both in religious and civil matters.'

265

as it gave him a severe control over the loose-
ness of the times, and enabled him to apply the
merciless rod of church-censure against the
vices even of the nobility. Such, probably,
was his motive for raking this vile stool from
the ruins of the fallen church. It has ever
been extremely obnoxious to the free spirit of
the peasantry; in proof of which many of their
songs might be adduced, if their delicacy were
equal to their wit and humour. — The reply of
an old woman to Mr. Knox, is worthy of re-
cord. After holding forth in praise of the
goodlie wark o' reformation, as he termed it,
and railing against the wickedness of popery,
he zealously exclaimed, ' I hae plucked the
raiment frae the harlot!' 'Ah, na, na!' quo'
the good dame, pointing to the chair of repent-
ance, 'ye hae keepit the vera tassel o' the breeks
o' Popery.' This stool of terror was fashioned
like an arm-chair, and was raised on a pedestal,
nearly two feet higher than the other seats,
directly fronting the pulpit. When the kirk-
bell was rung, the culprit ascended the chair,
and the bellman arrayed him in the black sack-
cloth gown of fornication. Here he stood

266

three Sundays successively, his face uncovered,
and the awful scourge of unpardoning divinity
hung over him. The women stood here in the
same accoutrements, and were denied the privi-
lege of a veil:

fA fixed figure for the hand of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at.'

The punishment of this humiliating exalta-
tion was not inflicted on illegitimate parents
only, but also on those who healed the breach
of chastity by subsequent marriage. So scru-
pulous was the covenanting kirk in this respect,
that the bridegroom had to lodge six pounds
Scots, in the custody of the Session, as a pledge
against unwedded incontinence, which, if con-
victed, he forfeited. This tax was broadly
termed by the peasantry, in allusion to the bor-
der taxes, ' Buttock mail.' The severity of
these punishments, so repugnant to female
delicacy, and to the sweet, innocent modesty
of the girls of Scotland, has however of late
years been relaxed; in many places they are
commuted for small fines, and private admo-
nition. Jt is enough for incontinence to walk

267

over the burning plow-shares of its own re-
pentant feelings, without being cast bound into
the seven-times heated furnace of Calvinism.
Highly to the honour of the Scottish clergy
and people, these stepping stools to child-mur-
der are now almost universally swept out of
the churches. Such an epithet may be deemed
a harsh one, but the following truly affecting
song fully justifies it, and seems purposely
written to touch the heart of religious tender-
ness with the simple and pathetic eloquence of
unwedded and abandoned sorrow.

' There r sat 'mang the flowers a fair ladie,

Sing ohon, ohon and ohon O!
And there she has born a sweet babie

Adown by the greenwode side O !
An' strait she rowed its swaddling band,

Sing ohon, ohon and ohon O!
An' O ! nae mother grips took her hand

Adown by the greenwode side O !

' There are many variations of this affecting talc. One
of them appears in the Musical Museum, and is there
called ' Fine Flowers of the fii/lr;/,' of which the present
is either the original or a para!' i song; I am inclined to
think it is the original.

268

O twice it lifted its bonnie wee ee,

Sing ohon, &c.
' Thae looks gae through the saul o' me,

Adown, &c.
She buried the bonnie babe 'neath the brier,

Sing ohon, &c.
And washed her hands wi' mony a tear,

Adown, &C.

And as she kneelt to her God in prayer,

Sing ohon, &c.
The sweet wee babe was smiling there,

Adown, &c.
O ay, my God, as I look to thee,

Sing ohon, &c.
My babe's atween my God and me,

Adown, &c.

Ay, ay, it lifts its bonnie wee ee,

Sing ohon, &c.
' Sic kindness get as ye shawed me,'

Adown, &c.
An' O its smiles wad win me in,

Sing ohon, &c.
But I'm borne down by deadly sin,

Adown, &c*

269

Never was there a punishment devised which
?;o completely defeated its own purpose. It
either hardened or broke the heart of the suf-
ferer. Without allowance for the different de-
grees of guilt in different cases, or for the
relative situation of the parties in the same case,
it was inflicted with indiscriminate and un-
mitigated rigour on the male and the female
transgressor, — on the seducer and the seduced.
He, driven by exposure to blunt the poignancy
of his shame in assumed effrontery, soon
banished the wholesome feelings of remorse,
and by an effort of fortitude, converted his dis-
grace into a triumph; while the soft, the gentle-
hearted female, on whom the consequences of
the trespass are, by nature and by the usages
of society, made to constitute a penance of the
most fearful and soul-subduing kind; she, in
whose mind the gloom of desertion was deepened
by the loss of fame, the alienation of those she
held most dear, and the close of every bright
prospect in life; she, already the dupe and the
victim of treachery and falsehood, was held
forth as the object of unsympathising cruelty

270

and derision. If there be a state of mind in
which

' present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings/

it is surely in the anticipation of this hateful
exposure; nor are we to wonder that an Un-
fortunate, goaded to despair by the dread of
so barbarous, so harrowing a punishment,
should, in the fever of apprehension, stifle the
feelings of a mother, and brave the guilt of
infanticide, rather than submit to the torture
of being publicly and indelibly branded with
infamy. The train of heart-breaking circum-
stances which follow the disgrace; the distant
civility and coldly averted look of friends; the
dumb, despairing affliction of parents; the vile
fingers of public mockery wagged at them in
the streets; — are not these excruciating punish-
ments due only to the confirmed in vice, to the
sworn votaries of prostitution ? and must the
pastors of the church, when they should pri-
vately administer the balm of forgiveness;
when thev should go into the wilderness and

271

seek for the lamb that had gone astray — must
they unfeelingly forbid her return to the flock
and shut the door of the fold against her for
ever! Such Pharisaical rigour is contrary to
the benevolent spirit of Christianity: far from
striving to reclaim those who are lost, it freezes
all the charities of the heart, and substitutes
hypocrisy for sincere repentance. But never
are the iron features of puritanical stoicism
more hideous than when they frown vengeance
on the lovely face of blushing modesty, ren-
dered more timorous by the consciousness of a
trespass; never is the breath of Calvinistic de-
nunciation more repulsive than when it blasts
the flow r already blighted, and drooping for
want of shelter and support. In defiance of the
dictates of common sense, and in outrage of
the feelings of humanity, this engine of Monkish
despotism was pre served by the Reformers, and
became more terrible in their hands than in
those of its inventors, until the liberal spirit of"
the present age prevailed over the narrow
bigotry of fanaticism, ami consigned the cutty-
stool to the oblivion it had long merited.
Ridicule contributed, perhaps more powerfully

272

than reason, to bring it into disuse. The rough,
manly wit of Butler, and the bold energetic
humour of Burns, have done more to correct
the pedantry of religion than whole volumes
of serious expostulation.

APPENDIX (E) p. 59.

HISTORY OF WITCHCRAFT, SKETCHED FROM
THE POPULAR TALES OF THE PEASANTRY
OF NITHSDALE AND GALLOWAY.

' These emissaries of Satan, with the stamp
of hell's chosen on their foreheads,' as a re-
forming saint once called them, have long held
uncontrolled dominion in Galloway and in the
Pot of Tsith, as the peasantry term that beauti-
ful vale in which the Brugh of Dumfries stands.

Though religion has triumphed over their
most daring spells, yet there are remains of
their influence still in unsubdued force, over
which scriptural light and reforming reason
have not prevailed. The strong sense and ad-
herence to religious duty — their belief in and
familiar acquaintance with scripture (the in-

273

heritance of the Scottish peasantry) will pre-
serve and transmit this remnant of heathenism
to the latest posterity. Speak doubtingly of
witchcraft to a peasant, he produces his Bible,
and who dare doubt the evidence of heaven!
The knowledge which the Reformation poured
on the mind swept away many superstitions,
but witchcraft remained untouched. To coun-
teract the looser and corrupt manners of the
Catholic clergy, tbe new religion assumed a
persecuting strictness of discipline, and en-
forced her iron laws to drive familiar spirits
and wizards from the land. Old men and
women were hurried to the stake, and to the
scaffold, and martyred on their own confession.
Triflinar evidence, in cases of uneonfessin":
stubborness, was proof sufficient. A wish of
ill luck, expressed in anger, and partly fulfilled,
perhaps for a bloody purpose, convicted tbe
poor offender of dealings with the foul fiend,
and almost convinced tbe guiltless mind of the
wretched sufferers that bell had been busy in
their hearts, and bad possessed tbem with dia-
bolical craft, which they bad unwittingly used.
Insensible marks, which the second sighted
T

274

searchers of witchcraft called 'little uncommon
figures of strawberry leaves,' &c. &c. found on
the human frame, were construed into the seal
of Satan, and taken for notable proofs of fa-
miliar agency. So eager were they to destroy
Satan's dominion on earth, that the bloodhounds
of religious law were uncoupled, and witches
were hunted down by their very smell. Wild
exaggerated tales of devilish artifice were col-
lected and published by visionary enthusiasts,
the public mind was poisoned and enflamed,
and all the land was in a state of infatuation.
That royal pedant, James the First, wielded
his kingly wisdom against the power of the
devil, and enriched his country with his most
notable book on witchcraft. During the reign
of his unfortunate son, and in the turbulent
time of the commonwealth, the public mind ad-
ventured in a bloodier field, and the church had
to unsheath her sword in a more mortal contest.
The restored unfeeling and licentious Charles
filled the land with persecutions and massacre;
witchcraft was then little heeded, overpowered
by greater calamity; — the free charter of
Conscience, after a fierce struggle, was gained

275

by the Revolution, and we hear little more of
punishment awaiting on witchcraft.

The following broken outline of Scottish
witchcraft is selected from the faithful records
of tradition, which is the surest book lor the
unfolding of character and general opinion.

Witchcraft being no inheritance of blood,
but the immediate gift of the devil, has been,
by his artifice, always bestowed on those who
could make most judicious use of it, for the an-
noyance of the righteous, and the furtherance
of perdition. With uniform consistency, he
has enriched by his knowledge, and exalted by
his power, the low scum of creation only — the
peasantry. Well lie knew that craft, ambition,
■iiid pride, belonged to hereditary greatness,
which, from his own example, would have
waxed mighty in his knowledge and disputed
his empire, making (to use the rough phrase)
' Hell too hot for him.' Thus lie loved to
dwell among the old, the weak, and the illite-
rate; though he seems occasionally to have
taken much delight and high edilieat ion ill con-
versing with hi> you njrer proselvtes.

From the gigantic ruins of his cinpire(\\ hieU

276

still remain in the breath of tradition) the poet
of Scotland has been led to lift up his voice,
and cry,

' Far ken'd and noted is thy name! '

With the foresight of a lawgiver, Satan esta-
blished and promulgated laws, made ordinances,
and set apart certain times for infernal delight
and revelry.

Trystes, where the whole Warlocks and
witches of a county were assembled, are yet re-
membered among the peasantry with terror;
they were wont to date their age from them ;
thus — ' I was christened o' the Sunday after
Tibbie Fleucher's Hallowmass rade.'

The noted tryste of the Nithsdale and Gal-
loway Warlocks and witches was held on a
rising knowe, four miles distant from Dumfries,
called ' Locher-brigg Hill.' There are yet
some fragments of the witches' Gathering
Hymn, too characteristically curious to be
omitted.

' When the gray Howlet has three times hoo'd,
When the grimy Cat has three times mewed,

277

When the Tod has yowled three times i' the wode,
At the red moon cowering ahin the clud ;
When the stars hae cruppen' deep i' the drift,
Lest Cantrips had pyked them out o' the lift,
Up horsies a', but mair adowe,
Ryde, ryde, for Locher-lrigg knowe /'

Roused by this infernal summons, the earth
and the air groaned with the unusual load. It
was a grand though a daring attempt for man,
or aught of mortal frame, to view this diaboli-
cal hurry. The wisest part barred their doors,
and left the world to its own misrule. Those
aged matrons, deep read in incantation, says
tradition, 'could sit i' the coat tails o' the moon,'
or harness the wind to their rag-weed chariot; —
could say to the west star, ' bvde thou me!'
or to the moon, ' hynte me in thy arm, for I
am weary ! ' Those Carlins of garrulous old age,
who had suffered martyrdom on the brow for
the cause, rode on chosen broom-sticks, shod
with murdered men's bones. These moved
spontaneously to the will of the possessor; but
the more gay and genteel kimmers loved a
softer seat than the bark of a broomstick. A
bridle shreded from the skin of an unhapti/.cd

278

infant, with bits forged in Satan's armoury,
possessed irresistible power when shaken above
any living thing. Two young lads of Nithsdale
onee served a widow dame, who possessed a
bridle with these dangerous qualifications. One
them, a plump, merry young fellow, suddenly
lost all his gaiety, and became lean, as if 'ridden
post by a witch.' On his neighbour lad's inquiry
about the cause, he only said, ' Lie at the bed
stock an' ye'll be as lean as me.' It was on a
Hallowmass ee'n, and though he felt unusual
drowsiness, he kept himself awake. At mid-
night, his mistress cautiously approaching his
bed-side, shook the charmed bridle over his
face, saying, ' Up Horsie,' when, to his utter
astonishment, he arose in the form of a gray
horse ! The cantrip bit was put in his teeth,
and, mounted by the Carlin, he went off like
the wind. Feeling the prick of infernal spur,
he took such leaps and bounds, that he reached
Loeherbrigg knowe in a \'e\v moments. He
was fastened by the bridle to a tree, with
many more of his acquaintance, whom he re-
cngiized through their brutal disguise. He
looked petriiied witli affright when the Father

279

of Cantrips drew a circle around the knowe,
within which no haptized brow could enter.
All being assembled, hands were joined, and a
ring of Warlocks and witches danced in the
enchanted bound with many lewd and uncouth
gestures. In the centre he beheld a thick
smoke, and presently arose the piercing yells
and screams of hellish baptism, which the new
converts were enduring. Startled and terrified
to furious exertion, he plunged, pulled, and
reared ; and praying ardently to Heaven, he
shook off the bridle of power, — and starting up
in his own sbape he seized the instrument of
his transformation. It was now gray day ligbt
when the conclave dispersed, for their orgies
could not endure the rebuke of the sun. He
watched his mistress, who, all haste and con-
fusion, was hurrying to her steed; shaking the
bridle over her brow, she started up a ' glide
gray mare,' and was hastened home with such
push of spur that all competitors were left far
behind! The sun was nigh risen as he hurried
into the stable. Pulling oil' the bridle his can-
trip-casting mistress appeared with hands and
feet lacerated with travel, and her sid<'> pricked

280

to the bone. On her rider's promising never
to divulge his night adventure, she allowed him
to keep the bridle as a pledge of safety.

To ride post on the human body was a privi-
lege enjoyed only by those who paramoured
with Satan, or had done some signal feat.
Many of these grovelling hags, to escape the
detection of their neighbours, had to belie the
form of God in the unholy semblance of cats.
The import of these meetings is now indistinctly
known, and popular report wanders in uncer-
tainty. It is hinted, from glimpses gotten by
daring wights, that ' Kain Balms' were paid
to Satan, and fealty done for reigning through
his division of Nithsdale and Galloway. These
Kain Bairns were tiie fruit of their wombs ;
though sometimes the old barren hags stole the
unchristened offspring of their neighbours to
fill the hellish treasury. Their rite of baptism
was still ranker of glamour; so much so, that
the voice of tradition ' speaks lowne' when de-
scribing it. They were stripped naked, and the
hellish hieroglyphic was impressed on their
sides and bosoms. It has puzzled the wise to
decypher these characters, else deeper insight

281

into the laws and civil government of our arch
enemy might perhaps have been acquired; but
this unknown language was proof enough to
roast the possessor.

While this Satanic hieroglyphic was writing
upon them, their yells were horrible; but the
healing ointment of perdition was poured on it
and allayed the smart. These marks secured
them from outward ailment, and from beinsr
assailed by the dint of mortal arms. Jackets,
woven of water snake skins, at a certain time
of a March moon, were much in vogue among
the crusading servants of Satan; and are yet re-
m< mbered by the name of ivarlock feckets. Tra-
dition has arrayed the brave persecutor Claver-
house in a lead proof jacket, lie rode through
the hail of bullets unhurt, pushing on his
career of" victory; but at length was marked
out by one of those very men whom he had
proscribed and persecuted. Wis cUiunwd Jacket
could not resist a ' silver sixpence' from the
mouth of a Cameronian's fusee!

Apart from these general meetings, or ' Hal-
lowmas Hades,' as they arc vet called, there
were trvstcs of friendly converse and of consul-

282

tation, held between a few of the presiding
Carlins, where the private emolument of the
parties, or the revenge of injury offered them,
was amply discussed. Here drugs and charms
were compounded and formed;0 figures were
shaped in clay of those who had encroached on
their empire, which, when pierced with pins,
conveyed by sympathetic feeling their maims
and wounds to the person they represented.
The baking of the ' Witch Cake,' with its per-
nicious virtues, is a curious process, recorded
in a traditional song, which we here give entire,
to convince the fair reader that her lot is cast

c The worthy author of ' Satan's Invisible World dis-
covered,' ingeniously shuffles the lewdness of Scottish Song
on the devil's shoulders.

' As the devil is the author of charms and spells, so is he
the author of several handy songs which are sung- A reve-
rend minister told me, that one who was the devil's piper, a
wizard, confessed to him, that at a hall of dancing, the
foul spirit taught him a haudy song, to sing and play, as it
were this night, and, ere two days passed, all the lads and
lasses of the town were lilting it through the street. It were
an ahomination to rehearse it.' Page 142,

<283

in safer times, when nature is the only tempter,
and love the only Witch Cake.

' The Witch Cake.

' I saw yestreen, I saw yestreen,
Little wis ye what I saw yestreen.
The black cat pyked out the gray ane's een,
At the hip o' the hemlock knowe yestreen.

\Vi' her tail i' her teeth she whomel'd roun',
Wi' her tail i' her teeth she whomel'd roun',
'Till a braw star drapt frae the lift ^ aboon,
An' she keppit it e'er it wan to the grun'. e

She hynt them a' in her mow' an' chowed,
She hynt them a' in her mow' an' chowed,
She drabbled them owre wi' a black tade's blude,
An' baked a bannock, — an' ca'd it gude! —

She Iiaurned it weel wi' ae blink o' the moon,
She haurned it weel wi' ae blink o' the moon,
An withre-shines thrice she whorl ed it roun',

' There's some sail skirl ere ye be done.'

■i /..y/_i!„. sky.

i. c. She ca ii^lit il ere it fell t<> tlie ground.

284

' Some Lass maun gae wi' a kilted sark,
Some priest maun preach in a thackless kirk;
Thread maun be spun for a dead man's sark,
A' maun be done e'er the sang o' the lark.'

Tell nae what ye saw yestreen,
Tell nae what ye saw yestreen,
There's ane may gaur ye sich an graen,
For telling what ye saw yestreen! '

Caerlaveroc and New Abbey are still cele-
brated as the native parishes of two midnight
caterers in the festivals of Glamour. They
were rivals in fame, in power, and dread. On
the night of every full moon they met to devise
employment for the coming month. Their
confederacy, and their trysting haunts, had
been discovered, and were revealed by chosen
and holy men who ministered to their Creator
and fulfilled his dictates.

Debarred from holding secret conference on
the solid sward, they fixed their trystes on the
unstable waters which separate their parishes.
This tale, so full of character, was taken down
by the Editor from the word-of-mouth evidence
of the man who saw all that passed; and it must

285

must be told in his own simple, expressive
language.

' I gaed out ae fine simmer night to haud
my halve at the Pow fit. It was twal' o clock,
an' a' was lowne; the moon had just gotten
up — ye mought' a gathered preens ! I heard
something firsle like silk — I glowered roun, an'
'lake! what saw 1 but a bonnie boat, wi' a nob
o' gowd, an' sails like new-coined siller. It was
only but a wee bittie frae me, I mought amaist
touch't it. ' Gude speed ye, gif ye gang for
guid,' quo' I, for I dreed our auld Carlin was
casting some o' her pranks. Another cunning
bout cam' aff frae Caerla'rick to meet it. Thae
twa bade a stricken hour thegither sidic for
sidie — ' Haith,' quo' I, ' the deil's grit wi'
some!' sac 1 crap down amang some lang
cowes till Luekie cam' back. The boat played
bowte again the bank, an out lowpes Kimmer,
wi' a pyked naigs head i' her ban'. ' Lord be
about us!' quo' I, for she cam' straught for
me. She howked up a green turf, covered her
bane, an' gaed her wa's. Whan 1 thought her
hamc, up I gat and pou'd up the bane and lined
it. 1 was Hey'd to gae back for twa or three

£86

nights, lest the diel's minnie should wyte me for
her uncannie bout, and lair me 'mang the sludge,
or may be do vvaun I gaed .back howsever ;
an' on that night o' the moon wha comes to me
but Kimmer! 'Rabin, quo' she, fand ye an
auld banc amang the cowes ? ' — ' Deed no, it may
be govvd forme!' quo' I — ' Weel, wecl, quo'
she, I'll byde and help ye hame wi' your fish. —
God's be me help, nought grippit I but tadcs
an' paddocks! Satan, thy nieve's here, quo' I —
' Ken ye (quo' I) o' yon' new cheese our vvyfe
took but frac the chessel yestreen ? I'm gaun to
send't t'ye i' the morning,) ere a gude neebor to
me; — an' hear'st thou me! there's a bit auld
bane whomeled ancath thae cowes; I kent nae
it was thine. Kimmer drew't out ; ' Aye, aye,
its my auld bane; weel speed ye! 1' the very
first pow I gat sic a louthe o' fish that I carried
'till me back cracked again.'

These full moon meetings never boded good
to the sister parishes : — whole fields of corn
would be thrashen by the winds, and loans of
kye would lowe to death; stack yards were
wholly unroofed, and sometimes there were
most alarming visitations of unwedded throes

287

among the poor kind hearted lasses; till the
very ' Cannie Wyfe' cried, — ' Enough!'

It is a popular klea that a witch must infuse
part of her own spirit into the person or beast
which she has obtained commission to destroy.
A farmer of Galloway, coming to a new farm,
with a beautiful and healthy stock, saw them
die away one by one, at stall and at stake.
His last one was lying sprawling almost in
death, when a fellow farmer got him to con-
sider his stock as bewitched, and attempt its
relief accordingly. He placed a pile of drved
wood around his cow, setting it on tire; the
flame began to catch hold of the victim, and its
outer parts to consume', when a man, reputed
to be a warlock, came flying over the fields,
yelling horribly and loudly, conjuring the far-
mer to slake the fire. ' kep skaith wha brings't,'
exclaimed the fanner, heaping on more fuel.
He tore bis clothes in distraction, for his body
was beginning to fry with the burning of bis
spirit. The fanner, unwilling to drive even the
devil to despair, made; him swear peace to all
thai was or should be bis, and then unloosed
his imprisoned spirit by quenching the fire.

Some farms have a powerful curse upon

288

them, that the first of whatever stock enters the
farm its kind will not prosper. To avert this
some creature of a class that can best be
spared is set in as a victim of atonement for its
betters.

* ///, or uncannie een/ rank high in the scale
of witchery and glamour. These, with some,
seem to be an endowment of nature; and with
others a gift from a place whence no good
gifts come. Sometimes the innocent possessor
of such mischievous talents would curse the
very light which guided his footsteps. An old
man, still remembered in ISithsdale, had een of
such unsonsie glance, that they blasted the
first born of his yearly flocks, and spoiled his
dairy. He would carefully shun his maids
coming home with the milk at bughting time.
Calves were kept from his sight, and butter
was never ehurned in his presence; nay his
good heart kept him from ever looking man
full in the face. He lived and died esteemed
a pious worthy man, who possessed powers
which he wished not to use; and who never
intentionally unclosed his een to the detriment
of any living thing.

But some old women make a more judicious

289

use of these precious endowments. When they
find how much their ' uncannie een' are re-
spected, they sedulously seek out objects on
which to exert their influence. The wise and
discerning people, instead of flying in the face
of the ' Unsoiisie Carlin,' pay her tribute in
secret, to avert her glamour. A goan of
new milk was a bribe for the byre; new meal
when the coin was ground, and a dish full of
groats compounded for the crops. Did she
but once hint that her pot 'played nat brown/
u chosen lamb or a piece of meat was presented
to her in token of friendship. She seldom paid
rent for her house, and every young lad in the
parish was anxious to cast her peats; so that
Kimmer, according to the old Song, ' lived
can tic and hale.'

Before markets were so fully attended, the
Lowland wives would go at the sheep-shearing
times, into tl.e Uplands, taking pieces of cloth,
sugar and tea, &e. &c. for baiter in the wool
trallie. ' The pawkie auld dame' trusted to
her far known character, going always empty
handed, vet she returned with the heaviest and
fairest fleeces.

L

290

The most approved charm against cantrips
and spells was a branch of rowan treee plaited,
and placed over the byre door. This sacred
tree cannot be removed by unholy ringers.
Elfcupsf were placed over stable-doors for the
like purpose. Even the mid-leg kilted daughters
of Caledonia made use of charms to ward the
sad effects of the witch cakes, and the kittle
casts and grips to which they were often ex-
posed. A string of rowan-berry beads was
knotted around their necks and arms; but the

e The Mountain Ash. Perhaps the expression in Shak-
speare, ' aroynt thee, Witch,' which has puzzled so many
of his Commentators, and which they have hunted after
from language to language, may have been originally writ-
ten, ' a rowan tree, Witch* — that is, ' I have got a rowan
tree Witch, and I fear thee not.' It is well known that
the popular superstitions of both parts of the island were
originally the same. It requires something more than a
mere knowledge of old French and Anglo-Saxon to be a
proper Commentator on Shakspeare, and many of the
Scotch peasants understand some of his most difficult ex-
pressions much better than the most learned of them.

f These are little stones, perforated by friction, at a water-
fall, and believed to be the workmanship of the lilves.

291

witches' prophecy was necessary to be ful-
filled;—

' Some Lass maun gae wi' a kilted sarkj'

for the cunning Carlin would cast knots on the
lasses' coats, which took the whole skill of the
' Cannie Wife' to unloose! Some favoured
witches were empowered with charms and spells
quite removed from the common track of gla-
mour: this is noticed in ' The Pawkie Anld
Kimmer.'

' Kimmer can milk a hale loan o' kye,
Yet sit at the ingle fu snug an* fir" dry.'

She possessed a sympathetic milking peg which
could extract milk from any cow in the parish.
The way of restoring milk to the udders of a
cow bewitched is curious, and may benefit pos-
terity. A young virgin milked whatever milk
the cow had left, which was of bloody mixture
and poisonous quality. This was poured warm
from the cow, into a brass pan, and (every inlet
to the house being closed) was placed over a
gentle lire until it begun to heat. I'ins were
dropped in, and closely stirred with a wand of
rowan tree. When boiling, ru.-.tv nails were
thrown in, and more fuel added. The witch

292

instantly felt, by sympathetic power, the boil-
ing medicine rankling through her bosom, and
an awful knocking announced her arrival at
the window. The sly ' Guidwyfe' instantly
compounded with the mother of Cantrips for
' her hale loan of kye;' the pan was cooled,
and the cows' udders swelled with genuine
milk.

We will close our history of witchcraft with
the only notice we could collect, of a cele-
brated personage, called the GyreCarline; who
is reckoned the mother of glamour, and near
a-kin to Satan himself. She is believed to
preside over the ' Hallowmass Rades;' and
mothers frequently frighten their children by
threatening to give them to M'Neven, or the
Gyre Carline. She is described as wearing a
long gray mantle, and carrying a wand, which,
like the miraculous rod of Moses, could con-
vert water into rocks, and sea into solid land.

Lochermoss, which extends from Solway sea
to Locherbrigg-hill, was once, according to
tradition, an arm of the sea, and a goodly-
anchorage for shipping. A proud swell of the
Hallowmass tide, which swept away many
steeds from the Carlint's assembly, so pro-

293

voked her, that, baring her withered arm, she
stretched over the sea her rod of power, and
turned its high waves into a quagmire!

There are still carved beaks, boats, keels, and
other remains of shipping, dug up in the moss
at peat casting time.

APPENDIX (F) p. 117.

CHARACTER OF THE SCOTTISH LOWLAND
FAIRIES, FROM THE POPULAR BELIEF OF
N IT H S D A L E AND GALLOWAY.

The origin of Faery is involved in obscurity,
(nit it may be traced, with great probability, to
i lie Persians and Arabs, a people of lively and
creative fancy, whose talcs of the marvellous
have been handed down to us in the amusing
translations of the Sicur Galland. The Persian
word Peri bears a close; affinity to the modern
denomination, and the Arabian terms (ii/ut
and (iinnistnn, corresponding to our terms
Fairv and Fairyland, give stronger credit to
the conjecture. We iiiuv suppose the supcr-
tition to have gradually spread among the
barbarians <>i the North ot Asia and Europe,

294

and to have mingled itself with the mythology
of the Goths, from whom it has descended by
tradition to their posterity, and till of late
formed a part of the popular belief in every
country of the western world. Marmontel, in
his tale of the Sylph, takes occasion to regret
its decay; and every lover of poetry must par-
ticipate in his feelings, when he remembers
the delightful reveries of Spencer, the sportive
revelry of Shakspeare, and the exquisite ro-
mance of Wieland. But though these fantastic
agents of mischief, and good-luck, have been
banished from the court and the palace, yet
they still linger in those remote abodes of sim-
plicity and primitive ignorance, where the
torch of science has not vet reached, or sheds
doubtful and uncertain light. In illustrating
the manners of the peasantry of Nithsdale and
Galloway, it becomes a duty to give some ac-
count of their popular superstitions; and of
these the native Fairies and Witches are the
most singular. They possess a feature of indi-
viduality distinct from those of other nations,
and congenial to the peculiar character of the
people. On this subject the reader will,
doubtless, prefer the testimony of oral tradition

295

to the more doubtful authority of antiquarian
lore, and black-letter research.

There are few old people who have not a
powerful belief in the influence and dominion
of fairies; few who do not believe they have
heard them on their midnight excursions, or
talked with them amongst their woods and
their knowes, in the familiarity of friendship.
So general was the superstition, that priestly
caution deemed it necessary to interpose its
religious authority to forbid man's intercourse
with these ' light infantry of Satan /'

They were small of stature, exquisitely
shaped and proportioned; — of a fair com-
plexion, with long fleeces of yellow hair flow-
ing over their shoulders, and tucked above their
brows with combs of gold. A mantle of green
cloth, inlaid with wild flowers, reached to their
middle; — green pantaloons, buttoned with bobs
•of silk, and sandals of silver, formed their under
dress. On their shoulders hung quivers of
adder slough, stored with pernicious arrows;
and bows, fashioned from the rib of a man,

296

buried where ' three Lairds lands meet,' tipped
with gold, ready bent for warfare, were slung
by their sides. Thus accoutred they mounted
on steeds, whose hoofs would not print the
new plowed land, nor dash the dew from the
cup of a hare-bell. They visited the flocks,
the folds, the fields of coming grain, and the
habitations of man; — and .woe to the mortal
whose frailty threw him in their power! — A
flight of arrows, tipped with deadly plagues,
were poured into his folds; and nauseous weeds
grew up in his pastures; his coming harvest
was blighted with pernicious breath, — and
whatever he had no longer prospered. These
fatal shafts were formed of the bog reed, pointed
with white field flint, and dipped in the dew of
hemlock. They were shot into cattle with
such magical dexterity that the smallest aper-
ture could not be discovered, but by those
deeply skilled in Fairy warfare, and in the cure
of elf-shooting. Cordials and potent charms
are applied; the burning arrow is extracted,
and instant recovery ensues. The fairies seem
to have been much attached to particular
places. A green hill; — an opening in a wood;

297

— a burn just freeing itself from the Uplands,
were kept sacred for revelry and festival. The
Ward-law, aa ever green hill in Dalswinton
Barony, was, in olden days, a noted Fairy
tryste. But the Fairy ring being converted
into a pulpit, in the times of persecution, pro-
scribed the revelry of unchristened feet. La-
mentations of no earthly voices were heard for
years around this beloved hill. In their festi-
vals they had the choicest earthly cheer; nor
do they seem to have repelled the intrusion of
man, but invited him to partake of their en-
joyments. A young man of Nithsdale, being
on a love intrigue, was enchanted with wild
and delightful music, and the sound of mingled
voices, more charming than aught that mortal
breath could utter. AVith a romantic daring,
peculiar to a Scottish lover, he followed the
sound, and discovered the Fairy banquet: — A
green table, with feet of gold, was placed
across a small rivulet, and richly furnished
with pure bread and wines oi sweetest flavour.
Their minstrelsy was raised from small reeds,
and stalks of corn: — he was invited to partake
in the dance, and ;:e- : :iled with a cup of wine :

298

He was allowed to depart, and was ever after
endowed with the second sight. He boasted
of having seen and conversed with several of
his earthly acquaintances whom the Fairies
had taken and admitted as brothers! Man-
kind, measuring the minds of others by their
own enjoyments, have marked out set times of
festivity to the Fairies. At the first approach
of summer is held the ' Fairy Hade ;' — and
their merry minstrelsy, with the tinkling of
their horses' housings, and the hubbub of
voices, have kept the peasantry in the Scottish
villages awake on the first night of summer.
They placed branches of rowan tree over
their doors, and gazed on the Fairy procession
safely from below the charm-proof twig. This
march was described to the Editor, with the
artless simplicity of sure belief, by an old
woman of Nithsdale: — ' L' tbe night afore
Roodsmass, I had trysted wi' a neeber lass, a
Scots mile frae hame, to talk anent buying
braws i' the fair: — we had nae sutten langaneath
the haw-buss, tiil we heard the loud laugh o'
t'owk riding, wi' the jingling o' bridles, an' the
clanking o' hoofs. We banged up, thinking

299

they wad ryde owre us ; — we kent nae but it
was drunken fowk riding to the fair, i' the tore
night. We glowred roun' and roun', an' sune
saw it was the Fairie fowks' Hade. We cowered
down till they passed by. A leam o' light was
dancing owre them, mair bonnie than moon-
shine: they were a wee, wee fowk, vvi' green
scarfs on, butg ane that rade foremost, an' that
ane was a gude deal langer than the lave, wi'
bonnie lang hair bun' about wi' a strap, whilk
glented lyke stars. They rade on braw wee
whyte naigs, wi' unco lang swooping tails, an'
manes hung wi' whustles that the win'playcd on.
This, an' their tongues whan they sang, was
like the soun' of a far awa' Psalm. Marion an'
me was in a brade lea iiel' whare they cam
by us, a high hedge o' hawtrees keepit them
frae gaun througli Johnnie Corrie's corn; — but
they lap a' owre't like sparrows, an' gallop't
into a green knowe beyont it. We gade i' the
morning to look at the tredded corn, but the
bent, a hoof mark was there nor a blade broken.'
In the solitary instance-, of their intercourse
with mankind there is a benevolence of charac-

K Jhtl «/.'■, — except one.

300

lor, or a cruelty of disposition, which brings
them down to be measured by a mortal stand-
ard. In all these presiding spirits there is a
vein of earthly grossness, which marks them
Beings created by human invention.

It is reckoned by the Scottish peasantry
' Unco sonsie' to live in familiar and social terms
with them. They will borrow or lend; and it is
counted uncanny to refuse a Fairy request. A
woman of Auehencreath, in Nithsdale, was one
day sifting meal warm from the mill : a little,
cleanly-arrayed, beautiful woman, came to her,
holding out a bason of antique workmanship,
requesting her courteously to fill it with her
new meal. Her demand was cheerfully com-
plied with. In a week the comely little dame
returned with the borrowed meal. She breathed
over it, setting it down bason and all, savin gt
aloud, ' be never toom.' The gude-wife lived
to a goodly age, without ever seeing the bottom
of her blessed bason. When an injury was
unwittingly done them they forgave it, and
asked for amends like other creatures.

A woman, who lived in the ancient Burgh of
Lochmalen, was returning late one evening to
her home from a gossipping. A little, lovely

301

boy, dressed in green, came to her, saying —
' Coupe yere dish-water farther frae ytre door-
step, it pits out our fire!' This request was
complied with, and plenty abode in the good
woman's house all her days.

There are chosen fields of Fairy revelry,
which it is reckoned umonsie to plow, or to
reap. Old thorn trees, in the middle of a field,
are deemed the rallying trystes of Fairies, and
are preserved with scrupulous care. Two lads
were opening with the plow one of these fields,
and one of them had described a circle around
the Fairy thorn, which was not to he plowed.
They were surprised, when, on ending the fur-
row, a green table was placed there, heaped
with the choicest cheese, bread and wine. He
who marked out the thorn, sat down without
hesitation, eating and drinking heartily, say-
ing, ' fair fa* the hands whilk gie.' His fel-
low-servant lashed his steeds, refusing to par-
take. The courteous plow-man ' thrave,' said
my informer, ' like a breekan, and was a pro-
verb for wisdom, and an oracle of local rural
knowledge ever alter ! '

Their love of mortal commerce prompted

302

them to have their children suckled at earthly
breasts. The favoured nurse was chosen from
healthful, ruddy complexioned beauty; one
every way approved of by mortal eyes. A fine
young woman of Nithsdale, when first made a
mother, was sitting singing and rocking her
child, when a pretty lady came into her cottage,
covered with a Fairy mantle. She carried a
beautiful child in her arms, swaddled in green
silk : ' Git my bonnie thing a suck,' said the
Fairy- The young woman, conscious to whom
the child belonged, took it kindly in her arms,
and laid it to her breast. The lady instantly
disappeared, saying, ' Nurse kin', an' ne'er
want!' The voung mother nurtured the two
babes, and was astonished whenever she awoke
at finding the richest suits of apparel for both
children, with meat of most delicious flavour.
This food tasted, says tradition, like loaf mixed
with wine and honey. It possessed more mi-
raculous properties than the wilderness manna,
preserving its relish even over the seventh day.
On the approach of summer the Fairy lady
came to see her child. It bounded with joy
when it beheld her. She was much delighted

303

with its freshness and activity; taking it in her
arms, she bade the nurse follow. Passing
through some scroggy woods, skirting the side
of a beautiful green hill, they walked mid-way
up. On its sunward slope a door opened, dis-
closing a beauteous porch, which they entered,
and the turf closed behind them. The Fairy
dropped three drops of a precious dew on the
nurse's left eye-lid, and they entered a land of
most pleasant and abundant promise. It was
watered with line looping rivulets, and yellow
with corn; the fairest trees enclosed its fields,
laden with fruit, which dropped honey. The
nurse was rewarded with finest webs of cloth,
and food of ever-during substance. Boxes of
salves, for restoring mortal health, and curing
mortal wounds and infirmities, were bestowed
on her, with a promise of never needing. The
Fairy dropt a green dew over her right eye,
and hade her look. She beheld many of her
lost friends and acquaintances doing menial
drudgery, reaping tin corn and gathering the
fruits. This, said she, is the punishment of
evil deeds! The Fairy passed her hand over

304

her eye, and restored its mortal faculties. She
was conducted to the porch, but had the ad-
dress to secure the heavenly salve. She lived,
and cnjoyred the gift of discerning the earth-
visiting spirits, till she was the mother of many
children; but happening to meet the Fairy
lady, who gave her the child, she attempted to
shake hands with her — c What ee d'ye see me
wi', whispered she? 'Wi' them baith/ said the
dame. She breathed on her eyes, and even the
power of the box failed to restore their gifts
again !

Had the Fairies of the Scottish Lowlands
always cherished mankind with deeds of hospi-
tality such as this, their name and power had
ranked high among the supernatural beings
who preside over the fate of luckless mortals;
but their attachments were mingled with base
and unworthy passions, and fitted them for
breaking through the moral obligations of so-
ciety. Hence they began to covet the sons and
daughters of men, and promoted, with their
elfin power, this base attachment. The young
men of greatest promise, and the fair maids of

305

most comely virtue, and of rarest personal
beauty, were naturally enough the objects se-
lected by them for the gratification of these
amorous desires.

But these gallantly courteous, and loving
elves, did not confine themselves to unwedded
paramours, but coveted their neighbours' wives ;
nor did they meanly steal their choice, after
a vulgar or ordinary manner, but laid ambushes,
and formed stratagems beyond the reach of
earthly conception.

Alexander Ilarg, a Cottar, in the parish of
New-Abbey, had courted and married a pretty
girl, whom the Fairies had long attempted to
seduce from this world of love and wedlock.
A few nights after his marriage, he was stand-
ing with a hi/ve net, awaiting the approach of
the tide. Two old vessels, stranded on the
rocks, were visible at mid-water mark, and
were reckoned occasional haunts of the Fairies
when crossing the mouth of the Nith. In one
of thesv' wrecks a loud noise was heard as of
carpenters at. work ; a hollow voice cried from
I he oilier — ' II >, xohaCryc doing!1 ' I'm making
a rcifj'e to Saudi/ Ilarg.r replied a voice, in
x

306

no mortal accent. The husband, astonished
and terrified, throws down his net, hastens
home, shuts up every avenue of entrance, and
folds his young spouse in his arms. At mid-
night a gentle rap comes to the door, with a
most courteous three times touch. The young
dame starts to get up ; the husband holds her
in forbidding silence, and kindly clasps. A
foot is heard to depart, and instantly the cattle
low and bellow, ramping as if pulling up their
stakes. He clasps his wife more close to his
bosom, regardless of her entreaties. The horses,
with most frightful neighs, prance, snort, and
bound, as if in the midst of flame. She speaks,
cries, entreats, struggles: he will not move,
speak, nor quit her. The noise and tumult in-
creases, but with the morning's coming it dies
away. The husband leaps up with the dawn,
and hurries out to view his premises. A piece
of moss oak, fashioned to the shape and size of
his wife, meets his eye, reared against his gar-
den dyke, and he burns this devilish effigy.

Tradition extends the Fairy power to heights
which may be deemed encroaching on the pre-
rogative of heaven. The moulding of bodies

307

from wood into the features and proportions of
the human form is skilful, and proclaims their
power in sculpture; but cloathing these in
flesh and blood, and breathing into their nos-
trils the breath of life, is an emanation from
God, and must be of Divine permission.

For the stealing of handsome and lovely chil-
dren they are far famed, and held in great awe.
But their pernicious breath has such power of
transformation, that it is equally dreaded. The
way to cure a breath-blasted child is worthy of
notice. When the mother's vigilance hinders
the Fairies from carrying her child away, or
changing it, the touch of F'airy hands and
their unearthly breath make it wither away in
(•very limb and lineament, like a blighted ear
of corn, saving the countenance, which un-
changeably retains the sacred stamp of divinity.
The child is undressed and laid out in un-
bleached linen new from the loom. Water is
brought from a blessed welt ', in the utmost silence,
before sunrise, in a pitcher never before wet;
in which the child is washed, and its clothes
dipped by the fingers of a virgin. It> limbs,
on the third morning's experiment, plump up,
and all it-> former vigour returns.

308

But matron knowledge has frequently tri-
umphed over these subtle thieves by daring
experiments and desperate charms. A beautiful
child, of Caerlaveroc, in JSitlisdale, on the
second day of its birth, and before its baptism,
was changed, none knew how, for an antiquated
elf of hideous aspect. It kept the family awake
with its nightly yells; biting the mother's
breasts, and would neither be cradled or nursed.
The mother, obliged to be from home, left it
in charge to the servant-girl. The poor lass
was sitting bemoaning herself, — ' Wer't nae
for thy girning face I would knock the big,
winnow the corn, and grun the meal!' —
' Lowse the cradle band,' quoth the Elf, ' and
tent the neighbours, an' I'll woik yere wark.'
Up started the elf, the wind arose, the corn
was chaffed, the out 1 vers were foddered, the
hand mill moved around, as by instinct, and
the knocking me// did its work with amazing
rapidity. The lass, and her elfin servant, rested
and diverted themselves, till, on the mistress's
approach, it was restored to the cradle, and
began to yell anew. The girl took the first
opportunity of slyly telling her mistress the
adventure. ' WliaVtttce do kV the wee diel?'

309

said she. ' I'll vvirk it a pirn/ replied the lass.
At the mi Idle hour of night the chimney top
was covered up, and every inlet barred and
closed. The embers were blown up until glow-
ing hot, and the maid, undressing the elf,
tossed it on the fire. It uttered the wildest
and most piercing yells, and, in a moment, the
Fairies were heard moaning at every wonted
avenue, and rattling at the window boards,
at the chimney head, and at the door. ' In the
name o' God bring back the bairn,' cried the
lass. The window flew up; the earthly child
was laid unharmed on the mother's lap, while
its <rrislv substitute Hew up the chimney with
a loud laugh.

I; was the precaution once in families, when
a pretty child was born, to consecrate it to
God, and sue for its protection by ' taking
the Beuk,' and other aets of prayer and devo-
tion.

There is an old Scotch adage —

' Whare the scythe cuts and the sock rives
H.ir done wVJauies an' /fc-h/ies ! '
The land once ripped by the plowshare, oi
:',,, sward once passed over bv the scythe

310

proclaimed the banishment of the Fairies from
holding residence there ever after. The quick
progress of Lowland agriculture will completely
overthrow their empire; none now are seen,
save solitary and dejected fugitives, ruminating
among the ruins of their fallen kingdom !

The ' Fairy Farewel,' is a circumstance that
happened about twenty years ago, and is well
remembered. The sun was setting on a fine
summer's evening, and the peasantry were re-
turning from labour, when, on the side of a
green hill, appeared a procession of thousands
of apparently little boys, habited in mantles of
green, freckled with light. One, taller than the
rest, ran before them, and seemed to enter the
hill, and again appeared at its summit. This
was repeated three times, and all vanished.
The peasantry, who beheld it, called it ' The
Fareweel o' the Fairies to the Burrow hill!'

311
APPENDIX (G) p. 132.

PARTICULARS OF THE ESCAPE OF LORD
N1THSDALE FROM THE TOWER.

The following account of the Earl of Niths-
dale's escape, written by his Lady, who con-
trived and effected it, is so full of interest that,
as it must suffer materially by curtailment, the
Editor has thought proper to give it entire.
It exhibits a memorable instance of that heroic
intrepidity to which the female heart can
rouse itself on trying occasions when man, not-
withstanding his boasted superiority, is but too
apt to give way to panic and despair. The
tenderness of conjugal affection, and the thou-
sand apprehensions and anxieties that beset it
in adversity, the long pressure of misfortune,
and the dread of impending calamity, tend
uniformly to overwhelm the spirits, and distract
the mind from any settled purpose; but it is
possible that those sentiments may be ab-
sorbed in a more energetic feeling, in a courage
sustained by the conflicting influence of hope
and desperation. Yet even thus prepared the
mind may be inadequate to the attainment of a

312

long and perilous enterprise, and in the present
case we have the testimony of Lady Nithsdale
herself that she would have sunk at the pros-
pect of so many and such fearful obstacles had
she not relied with firmness on the aid of Pro-
vidence. The detail of her narrative will
shew how greatly this reliance contributed to
strengthen and regulate the tone of her reso-
lution, not only in every vicissitude of expec-
tation and disappointment, but in what is
more trying than either, the sickening inter-
vals of suspense and doubt.

The original manuscript, from which the
present copy has been carefully transcribed, is
entitled ' A Letter from the Countess of Nithis-
dale to her sister Lady Lucy Herbert, Abbess
of the Augustine Nuns at Bruges, containing
a circumstantial account of the Earl of iSithis-
dale's escape from the Tower,' dated ' Palais
Roval de Rome, 16th April 17 IB,' and signed
' Winifred Nithisdale.' The leiter is now at
Terreagles, in the possession of Constable
Maxwell, Esq. a descendant of the noble House
of Nithsdale, for whose politeness and libe-
rality in allowing a transcription of the present
copy the Editor is sincerely grateful.

313

As a proof of the interest which the public
took in this extraordinary adventure, the fol-
lowing memorandum may be given. ' William
Maxwell, Earl of Nithsdale, made his escape
from the Tower, Feb. 23, 1715, dressed in a
woman's cloak and hood, which were for some
time after called Nithsdules.

' DEAR SISTER,

' My Lord's escape is now such an old story
that I have almost forgotten it; but, since you
desire me to give you a circumstantial account
of it, I will endeavour to recal it to my
memory, and be as exact in the narration as I
possibly can; for I owe you too many obliga-
tions to refuse you any thing that lies in my
power to do.

' I think I owe myself the justice to set out
with the motives which influenced me to un-
dertake so hazardous an attempt, which I de-
spaired of thoroughly accomplishing, fore-
seeing a thousand obstacles which never could
be surmounted but by the most particular in-
terposition of Divine Providence. I confided

314

in the Almighty God, and trusted that he
would not abandon me, even when all human
succours failed me.

* I first came to London upon hearing that
my Lord was committed to the Tower. I was
at the same time informed, that he had ex-
pressed the greatest anxiety to see me, having,
as he afterwards told me, nobody to console
him till I arrived. I rode to Newcastle, and
from thence took the stage to York. When
I arrived there, the snow was so deep, that
the stage could not set out for London. The
season was so severe, and the roads so ex-
tremely bad, that the post itself was stopt:
however, I took horses, and rode to London
through the snow, which was generally above
the horse's girth, and arrived safe and sound
without any accident.

' On my arrival, I went immediately to
make what interest I could among those who
were in place. No one gave me any hopes;
but all, to tbe contrary, assured me, that al-
though some of the prisoners were to be par-
doned, yet my Lord would certainly not be of
the number. When I inquired into tbe reason

315

of this distinction, I could obtain no other
answer, than that they would not flatter me :
but I soon perceived the reasons which they
declined alleging to me. A Roman Catholic,
upon the frontiers of Scotland, who headed a
very considerable party ; a man whose family
had always signalized itself by its loyalty to
the Royal House of Stuart, and who was the
only support of the Catholics against the in-
veteracy of the Whigs, who were very numerous
in that part of Scotland, would become an
agreeable sacrifice to the opposite party. They
still retained a lively remembrance of his
grandfather, who defended his own castle of
Carlaveroek to the very last extremity, and
surrendered it up only by the express com-
mand of his Royal Master. Now having
his grandson in their power, they were de-
termined not to let him escape from their
hands.

' Upon this I formed the resolution to at-
tempt his escape, but opened my intentions
to nobody but to my dear llvans. In order
to concert measures, I strongly solicited to be
permitted to sec my Lord, which they refused
to grant me unless I would remain confined

16

with him in the Tower. This I would not sub-
mit to, and alleged tor excuse, that my health
would not permit me to undergo the confine-
ment. The real reason or' my refusal was, not
to put it out of my power to accomplish my
design: however, by bribing the guards, I
often contrived to see my Lord, till the day
upon which the prisoners were condemned;
after that we were allowed for the last week
to see and take our leave of them.

' By the help of Evans, I had' prepared every
thing necessary to disguise my Lord, but had
the utmost difficulty to prevail upon him to
make use of them : however, I at length suc-
ceeded by the help of Almighty God.

' On the 22d February, which fell on a
Thursday, our petition was to be presented to
the House of Lords, the purport of which was,
to entreat the Lords to intercede with his
Majesty to pardon the prisoners. We were,
however, disappointed the day before the pe-
tition was to be presented; for the Duke of
St. Alban's, who had promised my Lady Der-
wentwater to present it, when it came to the
point failed in his word: however, as she was
the only English Countess concerned, it was

317

incumbent upon her to have it presented. We
had one day left before the execution, and the
Duke still promised to present the petition;
but, for fear he should fail, I engaged the Duke
of Montrose, to secure its being done by the
one or the other. I then went in company of
most of. the ladies of quality, who were then in
town, to solicit tbe interest of the Lords as
they were going to the House. They all be-
haved to me with great civility, but particularly
my Lord Pembroke, who, though he desired
me not to speak to iiiin, yet promised to em-
ploy his interest in our favour, and honourably
kept his word; for he spoke in the House very
strongly in our behalf. The subject of the
debate was, Whether the King had the power
to pardon those who had been condemned by
Parliament? And it was chiefly owing to Lord
Pembroke's speech that it passed in the affir-
mative: however, one of the Lords stood up
and said, that the [louse would only intercede
for those of the prisoners who should approve
themselves worthy of their intercession, but
not for all of them indiscriminately. Tins salvo
quite blasted all my hope-; for 1 was assured

318

it aimed at the exclusion of those who should
refuse to subscribe to the petition, which was
a thing I knew my Lord would never submit
to; nor, in fact, could I wish to preserve his
life on such terms.

' As the motion had passed generally, I
thought I could draw some advantage iu favour
of my design. Accordingly, I immediately
left the House of Lords, and hastened to the
Tower, where, affecting an air of joy and satis-
faction, 1 told all the guards I passed by, that
I came to bring joyful tidings to the prisoners.
I desired them to lay aside their fears, for the
petition had passed the House in their favour.
I then gave them some money to drink to the
Lords and his Majesty, though it was but
trifling; for I thought, that, if I were too libe-
ral on the occasion, they might suspect my
designs, and that giving them something would
gain their good humour and services for the
next day, which was the eve of the execution.
' The next morning [ could not go to the
Tower, having so many things in my hands to
put in readiness; but in the evening, when all
was ready, I sent for Mrs. Mills, with whom I

319

lodged, and acquainted her with my design of
attempting my Lord's escape, as there was no
prospect of his being pardoned ; and this was
the last night before the execution. I told her,
that I had every thing in readiness, and that I
trusted she would not refuse to accompany me,
that my Lord might pass for her. I pressed
her to come immediately, as we had no time to
lose. At the same time I sent for Mrs. Mor-
gan, then usually known by the name of Hil-
ton, to whose acquaintance my dear Evans has
introduced me, which I looked upon as a very
singular happiness. I immediately communi-
cated my resolution to her. She was of a very
tall and slender make; so I begged her to put
under her own riding-hood, one that I had pre-
pared for Mrs. Mills, as she was to lend her's
to my Lord, that, in coming out, he might be
taken for her. Mrs. Mills was then with child ;
so that she was not only of the same height,
but nearly the same size as my Lord. When
we were in the coach, I never ceased talking,
that they might have no leisure to reflect.
Their surprise and astonishment when I first
opened my design to them, bad made them
consent, without ever thinking of the conse-

320

quences. On our arrival at the Tower, the first
I introduced was Mrs. Morgan; for I was only
allowed to take in one at a time. She brought
in the clothes that were to serve Mrs. Mills,
when she left her own behind her. When
Mrs. Morgan had taken off what she had
brought for my purpose, I conducted her back
to the stair-case; and, in going, I begged her
to send me in my maid to dress me; that I was
afraid of being too late to present my last pe-
tition that night, if she did not come imme-
diately. I dispatched her safe, and went
partly down stairs to meet Mrs. Mills, who
had the precaution to hold her handkerchief to
her face, as was very natural for a woman to
do when she was going to bid her last farewel
to a friend on the eve of his execution. I had,
indeed, desired her to do it, that my Lord
might go out in the same manner. Her eye-
brows were rather inclined to be sandy, and
my Lord's were dark, and very thick : how-
ever, I had prepared some paint of the colour
of hers to disguise his with. 1 also bought an
artificial head-dress of the same coloured hair
as hers; and I painted his face with white and
his cheeks with rcugc, to hide his long beard,

321

which he had not had time to shave. All this
provision I had before left in the Tower. The
poor guards, whom my slight liberality the day
before had endeared me to, let me go quietly
with my company, and were not so strictly on
the watch as they usually had been ; and the
more so, as they were persuaded, from what I
had told them the day before, that the prisoners
would obtain their pardon. I made Mrs. Mills
lake off her own iiood, and put on that which
[ had brought for her. I then took her by the
hand, and led her out of my Lord's chamber;
and, in passing through the next room, in
which there were several people, with all the
concern imaginable, I said, my dear Mrs.
Catharine, go in all haste, and send me my
waiting-maid: she certainly cannot reflect how
late it is: she forgets that I am to present a
petition to-night; and, if I let slip this oppor-
tunitv, I am undone; for to-morrow will be
too late. Hapten her as much as possible; for
I shall be on thorns till she comes. Every
body in the room, who were chiefly the guards
wives and daughters, seemed to compassionate
rue exceedingly; and the ceutinel officiously
v

322

opened the door. When I had seen her out,
1 returned back to my Lord, and finished dress-
ing him. I had taken care that Mrs. Mills did
not go out crying as she came in, that my
Lord might the better pass for the lady who
came in crying and afflicted; and the more so,
because he had the same dress she wore.
When I had almost finished dressing my Lord
in all my petticoats, excepting one, I perceived
that it was growing dark, and was afraid that
the light of the candles might betray us; so I
resolved to set off. I went out, leading him
by the hand ; and he held his handkerchief to
his eyes. I spoke to him in the most piteous
and afflicted tone of voice, bewailing bitterly
the negligence of Evans, who had ruined me
by her delay. Then said I, My dear Mrs.
Betty, for the love of God, run quickly and
bring her with you. You know my lodging;
and, if ever you made dispatch in your life, do
it at present: I am almost distracted with this
disappointment. The guards opened the doors,
and I went down stairs with him, still con-
juring him to make all possible dispatch. An
■soon as he had cleared the door, I made him

walk before me, for fear the centinel should
take notice of his walk; but I still continued
to press him to make all the dispatch he pos-
sibly could. At the bottom of the stairs J met
my dear Evans, into whose hands I confided
him. I had before engaged Mr. Mills to be
in readiness before the Tower to conduct him
to some place of safety, in case we succeeded.
He looked upon the affair so very improbable
to succeed, that his astonishment, when he saw
us, threw him into such consternation, that he
was almost out of himself; which Evans per-
ceiving, with the greatest presence of mind,
without telling him any thing, lest he should
mistrust them, conducted him to some of her
own friends, on whom she could relv, and so
secured him, without which we should have
been undone. When she had conducted him,
and left him with them, she returned to find
Mi'. Mills, who by this time had recovered
himself from his astonishment. They went
home together; and, having found a place
of security, they conducted him to it.

' In the mean while, as I. had pretended to
have scut the young lady on a message, I was
obliged to return up stairs, and go back to my

324

Lord's room, in the same feigned anxiety of
being too late; so that every body seemed sin-
cerely to sympathise with my distress. When
I was in the room, I talked to him as if he had
been really present, and answered my own
questions in my Lord's voice as nearly as I
could imitate it. I walked up and down, as if
we were conversing together, till I thought
they had time enough thoroughly to clear
themselves of the guards. I then thought
proper to make off also. I opened the door,
and stood half in it, that those in the outward
chamber might hear what I said; but held it
so close, that they could not look in. I bid
my Lord a formal farewel for that night; and
added, that something more than usual must
have happened to make Evans negligent on
this important occasion, who had always been
so punctual in the smallest trifles: that I saw
no other remedy than to go in person : that, if
the Tower were still open when I finished my
business, I would return that night; but that
he might be assured I would be with him as
early in the morning as I could gain admit-
tance into the Tower; and I flattered myself I
should bring favourable news. Then, before I

325

shut the door, J pulled through the string of
the latch, so that it could only be opened on
the inside. I then shut it with some degree of
force, that I might be sure of its being well
shut. I said to the servant as 1 passed by,
who was ignorant of the whole transaction,
that he need not carry in candles to his master
till my Lord sent for him, as he desired to
finish some prayers first. I went down stairs,
and called a coach. As there were several on
the stand, I drove home to my lodgings, where
poor Mr. Mackenzie had been waiting to carry
the petition, in case my attempt had failed. I
told him there was no need of any petition, as
my Lord was safe out. of the Tower, and out of
the hands of his enemies, as I hoped; but that
J did not know where he was.

' I discharged the coach, and sent for a sedan
chair, and went to the Duchess of Buccleugh,
who expected me about that time, as I had
begged of her to present the petition for me,
having taken my precautions against, all events,
and asked it' she were at home; and they
answered, that she expected me, and had
another Duchess with her. I refused to go up
stairs, as she had company with her, and I \va>

)26

not in a condition to see any other company.
I begged to be shown into a chamber below
stairs, and that they would have the goodness
to send her Grace's maid to me, having some-
thing to say to her. I had discharged the chair,
lest I might be pursued and watched. When
the maid came in, I desired her to present my
most humble respects to her Grace, who they
told me had company with her, and to acquaint
her that this was my only reason for not
coming up stairs. I also charged her with my
sincerest thanks for her kind offer to ac-
company me when 1 went to present my pe-
tition. I added, that she might spare herself
any further trouble, as it was now judged more
advisable to present one general petition in the
name of all: however, that I should never be
unmindful of my particular obligations to her
Grace, which I would return veiy soon to ac-
knowledge in person.

1 1 then desired one of the servants to call a
chair, and I went to the Duchess of Montrose,
who had always borne a part in my distresses.
VVrhen I arrived, she left her company to deny
herself, not being able to see me under the af-
fliction which she judged me to be in. By

327

mistake, however, I was admitted-, so there was
no remedy. She came to me ; and, as my
heart was in an ecstasy of joy, I expressed it
in my countenance as she entered the room. I
ran up to her in the transport of' 1113' joy. She
appeared to he extremely shocked and frighted ;
and has since confessed to ine, that she appre-
hended my trouhle had thrown me out of my-
self, till I communicated my happiness to her.
She then advised me to retire to some place of
security; for that the King was highly dis-
pleased, and even enraged at the petition that
I had presented to him, and had complained of
it severely. L sent for another chair; for I
always discharged them immediately, lest I
might he pursued. Her Grace said she would
go to court, to see how the news of my Lord's
escape was received. When the news was
brought to the King, he Hew into an excess of
passion, and said he was betrayed; tor it could
not have been done without some confederacy.
He instantly dispatched two persons to the
Tower, to see that the other prisoners were
well secured, lest they should follow the
example. Some threw the blame upon one.

328

some upon another: the Duchess was the onlj
one at court who knew it.

' When I left the Duchess, I went to a house
which Evans had found out for me, and where
she promised to acquaint me where my Lord
was. She got thither some few minutes after
me, and told me, that, when she had seen him
secure, she went in search of Mr. Mills, who,
by the time, had recovered himself from his as-
tonishment; that he had returned to her house,
where she had found him; and that he had re-
moved my Lord from the first place, where she
had desired him to wait, to the house of a poor
woman, directly opposite to the guard-house.
She had but one small room up one pair of
stairs, and a very small bed in it. We threw
ourselves upon the bed, that we might not be
heard walking up and down. She left us a
bottle of wine and some bread, and Mrs. Mills
brought us some more in her pocket the next
day. We subsisted on this provision from
Thursday till Saturday night, when Mrs. Mills
came and conducted my Lord to the Venetian
Ambassador's. We did not communicate the
affair to his Excellency ; but one of his servants

329

concealed him in his own room till Wednesday,
on which day the Ambassador's coach and six
was to go down to Dover to meet his brother.
My Lord put on a livery, and went down in
the retinue, without the least suspicion, to
Dover, where Mr. Mitchell (which was the
name of the Ambassador's servant) hired a
small vessel, and immediately set sail for Calais.
The passage was so remarkably short, that the
captain threw out this reflection, that the wind
could not have served better if his passengers
had been flying for their lives, little thinking
it to be really the case. Mr. Mitchell might
have easily returned without being suspected
of having been concerned in my Lord's escape;
but my Lord seemed inclined to have him
continue with him, which he did, and has at
present a good place under our young master.
' This is as exact and as full an account of
this affair, and of the persons concerned in it,
us I could possibly give you, to the best of in}
memory, and you may rely on the truth of ii.
1 am, with the strongest attachment, my Dcat
Sifter, your's, most, affection, ly,

\\ i n i ni j; n \ ii n i sn.\ 1.1;

330
APPENDIX (H) p. 212.

ACCOUNT OF BILLIE BLIN'.

This is another name for the Scotch Brownies,
a class of solitary beings, living in the hollows
of trees, and recesses of old ruinous castles.
They are described as being small of stature,
covered with short curly hair, with brown
matted locks, and a brown mantle which reached
to the knee, with a hood of the same colour.
They were particularly attached to families
eminent for their ancestry and virtue; and
have lived, according to tradition's 'undoubted
mouth] for several hundreds of years in the
same family, doing the drudgery of a menial
servant. But though very trusty servants,
they were somewhat coy in their manner of
doing their work: — when the threaies of corn
were counted out they remained unthrashen ;
at other times, however great the quantity, it
was finished by the crowing of the first cock.
Metiers of corn would be dried, ground, and
sifted, w ith such exquisite nicety, that the finest

331

flour of the meal could not be found strewed
or lost. The Brownie would then come into
the farm-hall, and stretch itself out by the
chimney, sweaty, dusty and fatigued. It would
take up the pluff, (a piece of bored bour-tree
for blowing up the fire) and, stirring out the
red embers, turn itself till it was rested and
dried. A choice bowl of sweet cream, with
combs of honey, was set in an aeecs>ilde place :
— this was given as its hire; and it was willing
to be bribed, though none durst avow the in-
tention of the gift. When offered meat or
drink, the Brownie instantly departed, bewail-
ing and lamenting itself, as if unwilling to leave;
a place so long its habitation, from which
nothing but the superior power of fate could
sever it. A thrifty good wife, having made a
web of linsey-woolsey, sewed a well lined mantle
and a comfortable hood tor her trusty Brownie.
She laid it down in one of bis favourite haunts,
and cried to him to array himself. Being
commissioned by the gods to relieve mankind
under the drudgery of original sin, Ik was
forbidden to accept ol wage-, or bribes, lit."

332

instantly departed, bemoaning himself in a
rhyme, which tradition has faithfully pre-
served :

' A new mantle, and a new hood ! —
Poor Brownie! )'e'U ne'er do mair gude ! '

The prosperity of the family seemed to depend
on them, and was at their disposal. — A place,
called Liethin Hall, in Dumfries-shire, was the
hereditary dwelling of a noted Brownie. He
had lived there, as he once communicated, in
confidence, to an old woman, for three hun-
dred years. He appeared only once to every
new master, and, indeed, seldom shewed more
than his hand to any one. On the decease of
a beloved master, he was heard to make moan,
and would not partake of his wonted delicacies
for many days. The heir of the land arrived
from foreign parts and took possession of his
father's inheritance. The faithful Brownie
shewed himself and proffered homage. The
spruce Laird was offended to see such a famine-
faced, wrinkled domestic, and ordered him
meat and drink, with a new suit of clean livery,

333

The Brownie departed, repeating loud and fre-
quently these ruin-boding lines —

' Ca', cuttie, ca !
A' the luck o' Liethin Ha'
Gangs wi' me to Bodsbeck Ha.'

Liethin Ha' was, in a few years, in ruins, and
* bonnie Bodsbeck' flourished under the luck-
bringing patronage of the Brownie.

They possessed all the adventurous and
chivalrous gallantry of crusading knighthood,
but in devotion to the ladies they left Errantry
itself far behind. Their services were really
useful. In the accidental encounters of their
fair mistresses with noble outlaws in woods,
and Princes in disguise, — when the kind ladies
had nothing to shew for their courtesy but a
comb of gold or a fillet of hair, — the faithful
Brownie restored the noble wooer; laid the
lovers on their hridal bed, declared their
lineage, and reconciled all parties. lie followed
his dear mistress through life with the same
kindly solicitude; — for, when the ' mother's
trying hour was nigh,' with the most laudable
promptitude he environed her with the 'canine

334

dames/ ere the wish for their assistance was
half-formed in her mind.

One of them, in the olden times, lived with
Maxwell, Laird of Dalswinton, doing ten men's
work, and keeping the servants awake at nights
with the noisy dirling of its elfin flail. The
Laird's daughter, says tradition, was the come-
liest dame in all the holms of Nithsdale. To
her the Brownie was much attached: he as-
sisted her in love-intrigue, conveying her from
her high-tower-chamher to the trysting-thorn
in the woods, and back again, with such light-
heeled celerity, that neither bird, dog, nor ser-
vant awoke.

He undressed her for the matrimonial bed,
and served her so handmaiden-like that her fe-
male attendant had nothing to do, not daring
even to finger her mistress's apparel, lest she
should provoke theBrownie's resentment. When
the pangs of the mother seized his beloved
lady, a servant was ordered to fetch the
' cannie wife,' who lived aeross the JSith. The
night was dark as a December night could be;
and the wind was heavy anions; the proves of
oak. The Brownie, enraged at the loitering

335

serving-man, wrapped himself in his lady's fur-
eloak; and, though the Nith was foaming
high-flood, his steed, impelled by supernatural
spur and whip, passed it like an arrow. Mount-
ing the dame behind him, he took the deep
water back again to the amazement of the
worthy woman, who beheld the red waves
tumbling around her, yet the steed's foot-locks
were dry. — ' Ride nae by the auld pool,' quo'
she, ' lest we should meet wi' Brownie.' — He
replied, ' Fear nae, dame, ye've met a' the
Brownies ye will meet.' — Placing her down at
the hall gate, he hastened to the stable, where
the servant-lad was just pulling on his boots;
he unbuckled the bridle from his steed, and
gave him a most afflicting drubbing. — This was
about the new-modelling times of the Refor-
mation ; and a priest, more zealous than wise,
exhorted the Laird to have this Imp of
Heathenism baptized; to which he, in an evil
hour, consented, and the worthy reforming saint
concealed himself in the barn, to surprise the
Brownie at his work. He appeared like a little,
wrinkled, ancient man, and begun his nightly
moil. The priest leapt from his ambush, and

336

dashed the baptismal water in his face, solemnly
repeating the set form of Christian rite. The
poor Brownie set up a frightful and agonizing
yell, and instantly vanished, never to return.

The Brownie, though of a docile disposition,
was not without its pranks and merriment.
The Abbey-lands, in the parish of New Abbey,
were the residence of a very sportive one. He
loved to be, betimes, somewhat mischievous. —
Two lasses, having made a fine bowlful of
buttered brose, had taken it into the byre to
sup, while it was yet dark. In the haste of
concealment they had brought but one spoon ;
so they placed the bowl between them, and
took a spoonful by turns. ' I hae got but three
sups,' cried the one, ' an' it's a' done! ' ' It's a'
done, indeed,' cried the other. ' Ha, ha!'
laughed a third voice, 'Brownie has gotten the
maist o't.' He had judiciously placed himself
between them, and got the spoon twice for
their once.

The Brownie does not seem to have loved
the gay and gaudy attire in which his twin-
brothers, the Fairies, arrayed themselves: his
chief delight was in the tender delicacies of

337

food. Knuckled cakes, made of meal, warm
from the mill, haurned on the decayed embers
of the fire, and smeared with honey, were his
favourite hire; and they were carefully laid
so that he might accidentally find them. — It
is still a common phrase, when a child gets a
little eatable present, ' there's a piece wad
please a Brownie.' II is mantle and hood seemed
of perdurable materials, and remained unde-
cayed for hundreds of years. In the articles
of nicest housewifery he excelled; witched
cream that had been churned without success,
when touched by the charm-dispelling fingers
of the Brownie, yielded its yellow treasure.
In tin; morning the butter would be found
neatly washed and beautifully dressed out;
the kirn and staff well scalded, and placed in
(heir former situation. They were the noted
guardians of the ' kind bees,' and the protec-
tors of the dairy* so that the proverb was al-
most plucked from Canaan's brow, ot a land
flowing with milk and honey. They were, to
all appearance, beings of a very superior race;
invulnerable to the spells and cautraips o!

7,

338

deadly witchcraft, and proof against every thing
but baptismal affusion. They bore neither
bows nor shafts like the Fairies, but relied
solely on their own superior endowments.
Their love of women and dainty food, proves
them of earthly mixture ; but they conducted
themselves in a way worthy of their celestial
origin. In family economy they were un-
rivalled ; and the degeneracy of Scottish house-
wifery may be justly laid on the baptizing fe-
rocity of their stern reformers, which banished
from the farmer's hearth the noblest domestic
that industry ever held in fee. e

e Some features of this story have been already laid before
the public by Mr. Scott. The Editor hopes, however, that
he may venture, without any violation of modesty, to as-
sert, that the account here given, is in itself original, and
to him it appears more complete than that in the Minstrelsy .
Should the reader be of the same opinion the want of
«ntire novelty will easily be forgiven.

339

To estimate justly the high character of the
Scottish Peasantry, and to acquire a true relish
for the exquisite beauties of their Doric dia-
lect, it is necessary to live among them, and to
enter into their ideas and feelings. The Edi-
tor, therefore, in closing his account of them,
dares not indulge any sanguine hopes that
it will be as acceptable in his own country
as in Scotland. This apprehension is dis-
couraging; but he has the satisfaction to ob-
serve, that much of what he had to say in
recommending the Scottish Peasantry to the
notice of his countrymen, has been anticipated
by an authority very generally respected, — the
Edinburgh Review. In IV'XXXI, in a critique
on Mr. Grahame's (leorgics, are the following
comprehensive and philosophical observations.
' The last peculiarity by which Mr. Gra-
ham*'s poetry is recommended to us, is one
which we hesitate a little about naming to our
English renders: — to be candid with them,

340

however, it is his great nationality. We d<»
love him in our hearts, we are afraid, for speak-
ing so affectionately of Scotland. But, inde-
pendent of this partial bias, we must say, that
the exquisitely correct pictures which he has
drawn of Scottish rustics, and of Scottish rustic
scenery, have a merit, which even English
critics would not think we had overrated if
they were as well qualified as we are to judge
of their fidelity. We will add, too, in spite of
the imputations to which it may expose us,
that the rustics of Scotland are a far more in-
teresting race, and far fitter subjects for poetry
than their brethren of the same condition in
the South. They are much more thoughtful,
pious, and intelligent; have more delicacy in
their affections, and more reflecting, patient
and serious kindness in their natures. To say
all in a word, they are far less brutish than the
great body of the English peasantry. At the
same time, from being poorer and more lonely,
their characters and way of life are more truly
simple, while the very want of comfort and ac-
commodation with which they are sometimes
surrounded, holds more of the antique age,

341

and connects them more closely with those
primitive times, with the customs and even the
history of which they are still so generally fa-
miliar. The Scottish landscape, too, we must
be pardoned for thinking, is better suited for
poetical purposes than the prevailing scenery
of England. Its great extent and openness —
the slight shade of dreariness that is commonly
thrown over both its beauty and sublimity —
and the air of vvildness and antiquity which it
derives from its rocky hills and unploughed
valleys, — possess a charm both to the natives
and to strangers, that leads far more readily
to poetical associations than the fertile fields
and snug villages of the South.'

The Editor will close this volume with some
account of the Life; mid Writings of John
Lowe, one of the most distinguished of the
( iallowav bards.

342

BRIEF MEMOIR

OK THE

LIFE OF JOHN LOWE,

author of ' mary's dream.'
By the Reverend WILLIAM GILLESPIE,

MINISTER OF KELLS PARISH, IN GALLOWAY.

As no pathetic ballad was ever more popular
in this country than 'Mary's Dream,' it is
presumed that some account of its author,
(who was a native of Galloway,) will not be
considered an intrusion in the present Collec-
tion. The authenticity of the memoir will not
be doubted, when it is known that the gentle-
man who communicated it is minister of the
parish in which Lowe was born, and that his
father was one of the poet's best friends, and
most intimate correspondents. The history of
the latter part of his life, which he spent
abroad, Mr. Gillespie collects from notices
furnished by his own correspondence, and
from the communication of the Rev. Mr.
M'Conochie (an old and early associate of

343

Lowe's,) transmitted from Virginia, which
gives the unfortunate particulars of his death.
If the public sympathize in the interest felt
by the Editor on perusing this excellent memoir,
their approbation will give a value to the
thanks which he here expresses to the gentle-
man by whom it was communicated.

John Lowe, author of the pathetic and
popular Ballad ' Mary's Dream,' was born at
Kenmore in Galloway, in the year 1750. His
father was gardener to Mr. Gordon of Ken-
more, son of that unfortunate nobleman who
paid the forfeit of his life and titles for his ad-
herence to the House of Stewart in 1715. Our
poet was the eldest of a numerous family, and
as the excellent institution of parish schools in
Scotland affords, to the humblest of her sons,
the opportunity of educating his children, so
Lowe was early put to the parish school of
Kells, where, under an assiduous and able
teacher, he imbibed the rudiments ol classical
education. lie discovered an early ambition
of becoming a scholar, but, on leaving school,

344

his father's narrow circumstances did not
enable him to assist his son in the further
prosecution of his studies. At the age of four-
teen he was bound as a weaver to a respectable
and industrious tradesman of the name of
Heron, father of Robert Heron, author of a
History of Scotland, and of several elegant
translations from the French lano;ua2;e. He
was impelled by ' dire necessity,' to follow an
employment so unsuitable to his genius, for,
by the earnings of his labour, he soon after-
wards put himself to school under one M'Kay,
then schoolmaster of the neighbouring parish
of Carsphairn, an eminent teacher of the lan-
guages. He employed his evenings in teach-
ing church music, as he possessed a very just
ear, sung well, and played with considerable
skill on the violin. These qualities, added to a
happy temper, and an uncommon flow of
animal spirits, made Lowe very acceptable
wherever he went, and gained him many
friends who assisted him in his education,
both with their money and their advice. In
these respects, he was eminently indebted to
the minister of his native parish, a man as dis-

345

tinguished for the disinterested benevolence of
his character, as for his sublime and unaffected
piety, and his chearful and amiable manners. g
By these means Lowe was enabled to enter
himself as a student in the University of Edin-
burgh in the year 1771. For this generosity
of his friends he is accused of never having
afterwards been sufficiently grateful, but while
he ceased not to express, in the warmest man-
ner, his obligations to his benefactors, his ma-
lignant fortune denied him the means of cancel-
ling them. Even in his best days, prosperity
smiled upon him, rather in hope, than in pos-
session, and a dependant man, struggling with
difficulties, is frequently obliged to procrasti-
nate the day (if payment, to make promises he
is unable to fulfil, and to breathe wishes he
has no power to realize. —

' No post, no pelf, by servile means I sought,
Nor e'er was rich a moment — but in thought.'

Lowe.

■i The late Rev. John Gillespie, Minister of Kells.

546

In his most juvenile letters we trace the mind
of the poet alive to every change of nature, and
vicissitude of the seasons. ' We have had/
(says he, in one of his earliest letters from col-
lege,) ' a long and severe storm here, hut now
we have a very agreeable spring, the time of
the singing of birds is come, and the song of
joy is already heard in our laud. How sweet
now to leave the noise of the busy world, and
with frequent footsteps to gather health from
the gale of the morning! To raise the soul to
heaven with pious ardour, and hail the new-
born day ! To bask in the chearful beams of
the sun, the image of its great original! In
short, we are like people transported in an
instant, from the terrible icy shore of Zembla,
where eternal tempests madden, and dreadful
whirlwinds roar amid the frozen mountains, —
to the banks of the JNile, where a lasting ver-
dure clothes the fertile plains, where wintry
blasts, and the storms of dark December, are
never known. Pardon a comparison so bold,
but I am enraptured with the agreeable change,
and I dare say you will be so also.'

347

On his return from college, he hecame tutor
in the family of Mr. M'Ghie, of Airds, an
amiable country gentleman of small fortune,
who had several beautiful daughters. The
house of Airds is pleasantly situated on a rising
ground embowered with trees, washed on one
side by the Ken, and on the other by the Dee,
which here unite in one river under the com-
mon name of Dee, though this is but a tributary
stream. It is not easy to conceive a situation
more favourable to the descriptive Muse; and
here, Lowe, who had previously given some
marks of a poetical vein, gave free scope to his
genius, and composed many little pieces which
he frequently recited to his friends with great
enthusiasm. Of these, it is to be regretted that
few copies are now to be found, though there are
some songs yet sung by the common people (in
that district of Galloway called the Glenkens,)
which still bear his name. At this period of
life, when the mind delights more in descrip-
tion than in sentiment, in pictures of nature
than in those of manners, he composed a pretty
long pastoral poem entitled ' a Morning Vocin,''

348

which is still preserved entire in his own hand-
writing, and, though written at a time when
his taste was but imperfectly formed, is the
offspring of a lively imagination and of one
who ' mused o'er nature with a poet's eye.' —
He here, likewise, attempted to write a tragedy,
the scenes of which he used to read to some of
his companions, as he successively composed
them; but as this, the highest effort of human
genius, was at that time, and perhaps at any
time, above his reach, there is no cause to re-
gret that no part of it is now to be obtained.

He used to invoke his Muse from the top
of a picturesque cliff, which rises suddenly
over a thick wood on the banks of the Ken,
and commands a varied, beautiful, and exten-
sive view of the surrounding landscape. He
erected for himself a rural seat on this spot,
which is still called ' Lowe's seat,' and planted
it round with honeysuckles, woodbines, and
other wild shrubs and flowers. Here he re-
cited aloud his poetic effusions to the invisible
inhabitants of the woods and the streams, and
here likewise it was lie composed the well-

34.9

known ballad which makes the story of his life
chiefly interesting to the public.1'

' High on a rock his favorite arbour stood,
Near Ken's fair bank, amid a verdant wood ;
Beneath its grateful shade, at ease he lay,
And view'd the beauties of the rising day ;
Whilst with mellifluous lays the groves did ring
He also join'd.'

Lowf.'s Morning.

There was lost at sea, about this time, a
gentleman of the name of Miller, a surgeon,
who had been engaged to Mary, one of the
young ladies of Airds, an event which would
Ions: since have been forerotten but for the

'' In a letter, written seven vcars afterwards from America,
to an early friend, he says — ' The beautiful hanks of tin-
river Rappchanock, where tii" town in which I now reside
is situated, with all their luxuriance and fragrance, have
never to me had charms equal to smooth Km, or murmur-
ing Dee.' ' Thou wood of Ainh ! balmy retreat of peace,
innocence, harmonv, and love, with what raptures do I
■-till reflect on thee ! When were y«u there, and does m\
arbour stdl remain, or is there now any vestige ot m<
favourite walk; '

350

tender song of ' Mary's Dream,' which has
given to it immortality. It is to be presumed,
that our poet was sensibly alive to the misfor-
tunes of a young lady whose sister had inspired
him also with the tenderest passion; and we
regret to state that his fidelity to the object of
it, though equally worthy of his admiration and
his Muse, was but little consistent with the
warmth of his feelings, and the earnestness of
his professions. But perhaps, he excused him-
self with the levity of Montaigne, that ' love
is contrary to its own nature if it be not vio-
lent, and that violence is contrary to its own
nature if it be constant.'

His views were now directed to the church,
and he had spent another session at the Uni-
versity of Edinburgh. Seeing, however, no
prospect of a Living, and impatient of de-
pendence, he resolved to try his fortune in
America, where he fondly hoped his talents
would be more highly appreciated, and where
he indulged the pious expectation of being
better able to assist his aged mother and his
other relations at home, for whom he ever ex-
pressed the warmest affection. In writing to

551

one of his best friends, he says, ' Think not my
concealing from you my design of going
abroad proceeded from any diffidence of your
friendship, — far otherwise. — But for fear of
alarming my poor mother: I know how shock-
ing it will be to her, but I hope to have it in
my power to be of more service to her there,
than I could be at home.' In the same letter,
(dated 13 March, 1773,) he says, ' I delivered
a discourse this duy in the hall with great ap-
probation, both from my professor and fellow-
students. As it was the last i shall ever perhaps
deliver here, I resolved it should be as good as
it was in my power to make it.'

He embarked for the new world in the same
year, being invited as tutor to the family of
a brother of the great Washington, a situation
which supplied some hopes to his ambition.
He afterward- kept an academy for the educa-
tion of young gentlemen in Fredricksburgh,
Virginia, which succeeded lor awhile, ;is he
himself stales, ' beyond his most sanguine
wishes, and to which students resorted from a
vast distance.' It suffered however souk inter-
ruption by one of those winters ol intense frost

35i2

and deep snows which occur in America;
which, having shut up the town from any
communication with the neighbouring country
from which its productions were supplied,
compelled him to discharge his boarders, and
for some time he was not able to collect them
together again. ' Often/ says he, ' have I
heard Scotland called a cold place in winter,
but never did I experience any thing equal to
what I felt here last winter (1784). My ther-
mometer was frequently sunk entirely into the
ball, and it was with much difficulty that a fire
could then be lighted even in the closest rooms.
And when the ice broke away it was the most
dreadful sight I ever beheld ; houses, trees, ves-
sels, &c. &c. all moving away together in one
common plain of ice on the river Rappehanock,
which is close by this town, and the propertv
destroyed is immense beyond description.'

Sometime after this Lowe took orders in
the church of England, the then fashionable
religion of this part of the United States; ob-
tained a living in that church, and became
eminently respectable for his talents, his learn-
ing, and his sociable and pleasant manners.

353

He appears to have been so much elated by
his good fortune that in some of his letters
home he flatters his imagination with the
hopes of revisiting his native country in a
diplomatic capacity. These were the golden
days of Lowe, but an event took place which
clouded the meridian of his life, and blasted his
happiness for ever.

Two years after he left the shores of Britain
he addressed a poem, of considerable length,
to her who was the object of his earliest affec-
tions, and who seemed still to possess the chief
place in his heart.1 In this poem he thus
breathe^ his passion —

•' My busy sprite, when balmy sleep descends,
Flies o'er the deep, and visits all her friends ;
Then, only then, I see my charming dame,
Ah ! must we only meet but in a dream !
What hindered me when first thy fondest slave,
My hand to give thee, — as my heart I gave?

1 Tins Lady was, after the death of Mr. Lowe, married
to a very respectable country gentleman in her native
county, and still lives.

A A

354

Wedlock itself would need no grave Divine
To fix his stamp upon such love as mine;
A love so pure, so tender, and so strong,
Might last for ages, could we live so long.'

And afterwards he adds —

' Fair faces here I meet, and forms divine,
Enough to shake all constancy but mine.'

But notwithstanding the ardour of these
professions his constancy was not so much
proof, as he imagined, against the temptations
to which it was exposed. He became enamoured
of a beautiful Virginian lady, and forgot his
first love on the banks of the Ken. The young
lady, however, refused to listen to his addresses,
and he had even the mortification to witness
the fair object of his attachment bestowed on
a more fortunate and deserving lover. It is
singular, that the sister of this very lady be-
came as fondly attached to our poet, as she
herself had been indifferent to him, and he al-
lowed himself to be united to her merely, as he
states, ' from a sentiment of gratitude.' But
every propitious planet hid its head at the hour

355

which made them one — she proved every thing
bad, — and Lowe soon saw in his wife an aban-
doned woman, regardless of his happiness, and
unfaithful even to his bed. Overwhelmed with
shame, disappointment and sorrow, he had re-
course to the miserable expedient of dissipating
at the bottle, the cares and chagrins that
preyed upon his heart. Habits of intempe-
rance were thus formed, which, with their
wretched attendants poverty and disease, soon
sapped the vigour of a good constitution, and
brought him to an untimely grave in the forty-
eighth year of his age.k

A letter from Virginia, from an early ac-
quaintance of Lowe's, gives the following par-
ticulars respecting his death — That, perceiving
his end drawing near, and wishing to die in
peace, away from his own wretched walls, he
mounted a sorry palfry and rode some distance

k From the hasty manner in which I have been com-
pelled to write this Memoir, I have not been able to fix the
precise time of his death — but, from some circumstances, I
am led to place it about 1708, which makes Lowe forty-
eight years old when he died.

356

to the house of a friend. So much was he de-
bilitated that scarcely could he alight in the
court and walk into the house. Afterwards,
however, he revived a little, and enjoyed some
hours of that vivacity which was peculiar to
him. But this was but the last faint gleams of
a setting sun; for, on the third day after his
arrival at the house of his friend, he breathed
his last. He now lies buried near Fredericks-
burgh, Virginia, under the shade of two palm
trees, but not a stone is there on which to write
' Mary, weep no more for me ! '

The abandoned woman, to whom he had
been united, made no enquiries after her hus-
band for more than a month afterwards, when
she sent for his horse, which had been previously
sold to defray the expences of his funeral.

Such was the tragical end of the author of
' Mary's Dream,' whose domestic misfortunes
' broke a heart already bruised,' and terminated
a life which was worthy of a better fate. As a
poet, he unquestionably possessed that vivida
vis animi, — that liveliness of the imagination,

357

— that sensibility of the heart, which are the
inseparable concomitants of poetical genius, or
rather, which conspire to form it. The few
fragments which we have of his juvenile poems,
imperfect as they are, and made still more so
by the inaccurate memories of those from whom
they have been chiefly obtained, show a mind
capable of still greater efforts, and leave us to
regret that he had not cultivated his genius by
more frequent exercise. Much might have
been expected from an imagination corrected
by maturity of judgment, a taste refined and
polished by the perusal of the most finished
models, and a diction made more rich and se-
lect by unremitted habits of composition. His
' Morning Poem,' written at the age of twenty-
two, contains some pretty stanzas, of which the
following are no unfavourable specimen.

' Hail! to the new horn clay and cheering light,
What various beauties charm the ravish'd sight,
1 low sweet with early steps, to view the fields,
Ami taste the charms which grateful Summer yields,
With watchful eye, to tread the riowery mad,
And follow nature up to nature's God, —

358

On Ken, whose sweet meanders glide away,
And add new beauties to the rising day ;
With Dee, whose murmuring music fills the grove.
Where sportive Naiads sing their mutual love j —
The opening flowers along their borders blow,
And in their bosoms with fresh lustre glow ;
In every wood, the feather'd songsters raise
Their cheerful notes, to sing their Maker's praise.
Aloft in air, the skylark wings his way,
And thrills his notes in sweet melodious lay :
The sooty blackbirds, scatter'd thro' the grove,
Now warble forth their mellow notes of love :
The dark grey thrush, which in the joyful Spring,
My slender pipe had often taught to sing,
On yonder twig sends forth its tuneful voice,
Bids hills be glad, and rising woods rejoice ;
The spreading broom displays its golden hue,
And, nodding, bends beneath the pearly dew ;
The snowy hawthorns, rising here and there,
With grateful fragrance fill the passing air :
Amid their boughs, within each little nest,
The tender passion glows from breast to breast.'

' The poem called ' Lowe's Lines/ though
very defective in the execution, and, in some
of its sentiments, inconsistent both with each
other and the passion which it breathes, has

359

likewise some pathetic and beautiful lines, and
manifests at once the tenderness of the lover
and the imagination of the poet. His letters
are well written, and evince a correct and manly
understanding, and a warm and benevolent
heart. But it was his evil destiny to struggle
with dependance, and that time was to be con-
sumed in providing the necessary means of his
subsistence, which, in happier circumstances,
might have been employed in the indulgence
of his genius, the cultivation of his taste, and
in twining round his brow the wreath of im-
mortality.

It may not be uninteresting to state that
he was very handsome in his person. His
figure was active, well proportioned, and rather
above the middle size; — his hair was of an
auburn hue, his eyes were blue and penetrating,
his nose aquiline, and the whole expression of
his countenance open and benevolent. These
qualities, united to a fine voice, and lively and
insinuating manners, made him a favourite of
the fair sex, and he might have secured a
handsome independence by marriage it he
could have brooked a union in which his heart
had no share, lie was, however, more sus-

360

ceptible than constant, and one act of infi-
delity was, by a retributive justice, sufficiently
punished by the subsequent misfortunes of his
life. His faults, like those of most men of
acute sensibility, sprung out of the same soil
with his genius and his virtues. It was re-
marked of him, that he always evinced that
manly independence of character, which is the
offspring of a superior mind, conscious of its
powers; a quality he shewed even when a boy
at school, by a severe beating which he gave
to a gentleman's son who was older than him-
self, and to whom his schoolfellows used to
look up with deference; — and, surely, it be-
comes us to lean gently on those faults to which
he was at last driven by that domestic infe-
licity which, to a delicate mind, is, of all evils,
the most difficult to bear; and, while we blame
his errors, we cannot forbear to sympathize
with his misfortunes. In short, his character,
like that of all others, was of a mixed kind,
but his good qualities far outweighed his de-
fects. VV . G.

Kell? Manse,
29th June, 1810.

361

Such is the valuable account of Lowe, given
by Mr. Gillespie. The Editor will here shortly
add what he was able himself to discover re-
specting the ballad of ' Mary's Dream/ among
the peasantry of Galloway.

This ballad is extremely popular among
them, but in a form materially different from
the printed copy, long familiar to the public,
which is entirely English. Their copy, if not
altogether Scotch, is strongly sprinkled with
it. But there is more than a mere difference
of language; — it extends to the imagery and
scenery of the poem. Was this ballad origi-
nally written in English by Lowe, and gradually
(•(inverted by the country people into language
and imagery more congenial to them? Or was
Lowe himself the author of both copies; and
if so, which is the original: This is a euriouB
enquiry. Yet it is an enquiry which the Editor
believes can lead hut to one conclusion, lie
himself docs not entertain a doubl thai the
Scotch copy is the original; hut as the other

362

has also its beauties, and has been long a
favourite of the public, it would be charged
upon him as presumption were he to exclude
from this collection a ballad of such celebrity.
He is induced therefore to insert here both the
copies, that the public may award to which of
them the preference is due.

Mary's Dkeam.

The moon had climb'd the highest hill,

Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tow'r and tree :
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ;
When soft and low a voice was heard,

Saying, Mary, weep no more for me.

She from her pillow gently rais'd

Her head to ask who there might be ;
She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand,

With visage pale and hollow ee ;
' O Mary, dear, cold is my clay,

It lies beneath a stormy sea;
Far, far from thee I sleep in death ;

So, Mary, weep no more for me.

363

' Three stormy nights and stormy days,

We toss'd upon the raging main j
And long we strove our bark to save,

But all our striving was in vain.
E'en then, when horror chill'd my blood,

My heart was fill'd with love for thee :
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me.

O maiden dear, thyself prepare,

We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more ! '
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadows fled,

No more of Sandy could she see ;
But soft the passing spirit said,

' Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!'

Old way of ' Mary's Dkeam.'

The lovely moon had climbed the hill
Where eagles big1 aboon the Dee,
And like the looks of a lovely dame,
Brought joy to every bodies i v ,

1 Build tin. ir nests.

364

A' but sweet Mary, deep in sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ;
A voice drapt saftly on her ear,
' Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me ! '

She lifted up her waukening een,
To see from whence the voice might be,
And there she saw her Sandy stand,
Pale, bending on her his hollow ee !
' O Mary, dear, lament nae mair,
I'm in death's thraws '" below the sea $
Thy weeping makes me sad in bliss,
' Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me ! '

' The wind slept when we left the bay,
But soon it waked and raised the main,
And God he bore us down the deep,
Who strave wi' him but strave in vain !
He stretched his arm, and took me up,
Tho' laith I was to gang but " thee,
I look frae heaven aboon the storm,
' Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me! '

' Take off thae bride sheets frae thy bed,
Which thou hast faulded down for me;

"' Thraws, throes. n But, without.

365

Unrobe thee of thy earthly stole —

I'll meet wi' thee in heaven hie.'

Three times the gray cqck flapt his wing,

To mark the morning lift her ee,

And thrice the passing spirit said,

' Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me ! '

Here the Editor thinks, that, whoever com-
pares these two copies together, cannot en-
tertain a doubt that the Scotch one is theorigri-
rial. There is that freshness and vividness of
colouring in its sentiments and descriptions,
which uniformly characterize the genuine
transcripts of feeling; and the scenery and
imagery is such as a native of Galloway, in the
flow of inspiration, would be unavoidably led
to use. In all these respects, it materially dif-
fers from the printed copy, which, though
very beautiful indeed, and certainly more
uniformly correct, and higher laboured than
the other, contains a great deal less of the
simple language ol the heart, and has no dis-
tinguishing feature by which ii can be at-
tributed to the native of one part of the island
more than another. To go no further than

366

the two opening lines : — The English copy
merely describes the moon rising over a moun-
tain, the source of a river:

' The moon had climb'd the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee.'

But in the other, we have the picture faith-
fully described, which was present to the
poet's imagination :

' The lovely moon had climbed the hill
Where eagles big aboon the Dee.'

We see here a Scotch landscape in all its
characteristic sublimity; — the towering cliffs
lost in the clouds, the frightful abode of the
eagle !

The two concluding lines of the first stanza
in the English copy —

' When soft and low a voice was heard.
Saying, Mary, weep no more for me,'

are infinitely tamer and more prosaic than

' A voice drapt saftly on her ear,
Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me ! '

$67

The omission of the word saying, in the
Scotch, and bursting at once to the speech,
has a happy effect.

How beautifully tender are the two follow-
ing lines:

1 Take aff thae bride sheets frae thy bed,
Which thou hast faulded down for me.'

And how cold and formal, in comparison, are
the lines

' O maiden dear, thyself prepare, Sec'

Every description seems, in a similar man-
ner, to have lost what it had of picturesque
effect in passing from Scotch to English. For
instance, the crowing of the cock at the dawn
of morning, is described in the following lines
as a Shakspeare would have described it:

'Three times the gray cock flapt his wing,
To mark the morning lilt her ee.'

Here every thing is in life and motion, fresh
from a creative fancy; but the daringness of
fancy which dictated these lines, must have

36$

been long subdued, and succeeded by very
different emotions, before the same poet could
coldly write —

' Loud crow'd the cock, the shadows fled.'

Every reader, of true poetical taste, must
have felt the bold sublimity and pathos of the
whole of the third stanza —

' The wind slept, &c.'

Here, in addition to the natural awfulness
of the scene, the poet has called to his aid
whatever is most interesting and majestic in
religion. — There is a simple sublimity in the
lines

c And God he bore us down the deep,
Who strave wi' him but strave in vain !
He stretched his arm, and took me up.'

to which the Editor believes it would be doing
an injury, were he to compare it even to any
thing of Burns. It is of a higher cast, and is
more akin to the wild inspiration of a Job or
h David. The struggles of suffering humanity,

36y

opposed to the arm of Omnipotence, present
a contrast at which our faculties are lost in
wonder and awe. But even here, when his
struggles are over, and when the gates of bliss
are opened to him, his affection remains un-
impaired. All the happiness of heaven is
insufficient to make him forego his love; — he
enters it with reluctance without her, and still
watches over her with tremhling solicitude.

' He stretched his arm and took me up,
Tho' laith I was to gang but thee.'

Madame Stael quotes, in Corinne, a thought
of her father's, who represents it as an alle-
viation to a poor sinner, amidst all the tor-
ments of hell, that he caught an opening
giimpse of heaven, when his beloved spouse
was about to enter it. This thought has been
very much admired; but it appears strained and
sought after when compared with the passage
of the Scotch pod.

The reader will see that all these finely-
imagined circumstances do not appear in the

570

English copy. When the ardour of the poet's
mind had cooled, and he had to grope his way
in a language not so familiar to him, they
would appear to him of too bold a nature, and,
on that account, no doubt have been sup-
pressed.

It would be trespassing on the patience of
the reader to enlarge on this subject. The
Editor is conscious that he has already dis-
cussed it at too great a length ; but he hopes
the enthusiasm which he feels for a beauti-
ful poem will weigh with a generous public
in his justification.

THE END.

T. ISensley, Printer,
Bok Court, Fleet Street, London.

THE

PROCESSION

OF

CHAUCER'S PILGRIMS

TO

CANTERBURY.

A PRINT,

FROM THE WELL KNOWN

CABINET PICTURE, PAINTED FROM THIS SUBJECT,
By THOMAS STOTHARD, Esq. R. A.

IS NOW ENGRAVING IN THE LINE MANNER,

By Mr. BROMLEY, and R. II. CROMEK.

The Picture is 3 Feet long, and 1 Foot high. The Print will be
executed exactly of the same size. The Price of the Prints will be
Three Guineas; Proof Impressions, Five Guineas. Gentlemen who
wish to possess this Engraving, are requested to forward their ad-
dress to Mr. Cromek, No. o4, Newman Street, London ; and as
the number of Proof Impressions will be limited, an early applica-
tion is indispensable.

The scheme of this Work is in everv r s[>ect very extraordinary,
as will best appear from a short representation of the Author's de-
sign, as explained by Mr. Tyrwhilt, in his preface. " Chaucer pre-
tends, that intending to pay his devotions at the shrine of Thomas a
Becket, he set up his horse at the Tabard Inn, in Soutlnvark ; that

2

he found at the Inn a number of Pilgrims, who severally proposed
the same journey ; and that they all agreed to sup together, and to set
out the next morning on the same party. The supper being finished,
the landlord, a fellow of sense and drollery, conformably to his cha-
racter and calling, makes them no disagreeable proposal, that, to di-
vert them on their journey, each of them should be obliged to tell two
stories, one going, the other coming back; and that whoever, in
the judgment of the company, should succeed best in this art of
Tale-telling, by way of recompence, at their return to his Inn, should
be entitled to a good supper at the common cost ; which proposal
assented to, he promises to be their governor and guide."

The Scene of the Picture is laid in that part of the road to Canter-
bury which commands a view of the Dulwich Hills ; — the Time — a
beautiful and serene May morning. The Pilgrims are grouped with
a decorum suited to their respective characters, and in the order in
which we may suppose Chaucer himself to have seen them, headed
by the Miller playing upon his pipe, under the guidance of Harry
Haillie, the Host; who, as Master of the Ceremonies, is repre-
sented on horseback, standing in his stirrups, in the act of com-
manding attention to the proposal he is about to make, of drawing
lots to determine which of the company shall tell the first Tale.
Near to him is a line of five characters — the Knight; his Son, the
Young Squire; the Franklin, or Country Gentleman; the Serjeant
at Laiv; the Merchant, and the Doctor of Physic. The Squire is
mounted on a White Horse near the Knight, and betwixt these two
figures is seen the Ileve. Close behind the Squire his Yeoman ad-
vances, habited in green. The front of the next Group is also com-
posed of five characters — The Lady Abbess; her Nun; the Nun's
Priest; the Good Parson; and his Brother, the Ploughman. The
figures immediately behind the Lady Abbess are, the Shipment ; the
Oxford Scholar ; the Manciple, and Chaucer. Next, moupted upon
an ambling Nag, approaches the Wife of Hath, heading a group of
four figures: — She is represented in brisk conversation with the
Monk and the Friar 5 behind them are the Pardoner, dressed in blue,
and his friend the Sompnour, in white.

The last group of this motlev Cavalcade is composed of the Gold-
smith, the Treaver, the Haberdasher, the Dyer, and the Tapestry
Merchant, all Citizens of London, attended by their Cook: with
these jolly Pilgrims the Procession closes.

The Work is in great forwardness, and may be seen at Mr. Cro-
tnek'sj 04, Newman-Street.

London, August 15, 1810.

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